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SOUTHERN 
PROSE AND POETRY 

FOR SCHOOLS 



SOUTHERN 
PROSE AND POETRY 

FOR SCHOOLS 



BY 

EDWIN MIMS 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA 

AND 

BRUCE R. PAYNE 

PROFESSOR OF SECONDARY EDUCATION, UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1910 






Copyright, 1910, by 
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 



(gCi,A261323 




PREFACE 

The principal purpose of this collection is to inspire 
the youth of the South to a more earnest and intelligent 
study of the literature of that section. For various 
reasons the Southern student knows less of his own 
literature than he does of any other. One rarely 
hears of the study of a Southern author in a Southern 
high school or grammar school. Without diminishing 
the effort devoted to the study of American literature, 
and with no intention of sectional glorification, our 
boys and girls should begin to acquaint themselves 
with some of the finer spirits who have endeavored to 
record in beautiful language the emotional experiences 
peculiar to the section in which they dwell. The defi- 
nite task undertaken in this volume, therefore, is to 
provide students with a convenient introduction to the 
work of Southern writers. Because the literature of 
the South is a part of the Nation's literature, it is 
believed that these stories and poems will be studied 
with profit and pleasure by students from ail sections 
of our country. 

The book is intended primarily for schools. The 
exact position in the curriculum it shall occupy is left 
to the judgment of school officials. Intellectual apti- 
tudes and previous training vary so greatly among 
different groups of students and in different sections 
that the editors do not care to undertake to decide the 
definite place in a system of schools for such a collection. 



vi PREFACE 

It is never too late to acquaint one's self with a master- 
piece of literature, however simple the composition; on 
the other hand, one has a right to read a classic just as 
early as it may be understood with a fair degree of 
accuracy and enjoyment. With these principles in 
mind, it is the belief of the editors that this volume may 
furnish supplementary reading in the upper grammar 
grades, parallel reading throughout the high-school 
course, and suggestive reading for a college class in 
American literature. For more detailed study, a special 
term of months might profitably be devoted to it in the 
high school and the college. 

If criticism is offered because of the omission of 
favorite authors, we can only suggest that this is no 
compendium of Southern literature. It was impossible 
to include everything, and those selections were made 
which, in the judgment of the editors, would hasten the 
establishment of a point of contact between the youth- 
ful student and that great world of literature to which 
we hope to introduce him. 

The grouping of the stories and poems should be of 
assistance to the pupil. The usual chronological ar- 
rangement has been abandoned; selections have been 
assembled with reference to a central idea, both for the 
sake of clearness of apprehension and for the purpose 
of sustaining interest. 

The profuse use of notes has been avoided. No ex- 
planation has been made of any word that may be 
found in an academic dictionary. To the adolescent 
mind in the initial stage of acquiring a taste for literature 
nothing is so tiring as over-analysis and annotation. 
If abundant notes seem necessary at this period, there 
is ground for suspicion that the material is not adapted 
to the age of the learner. The teacher with a dictionary 



PREFACE vii 

and a manual of mythology is the best judge of the limit 
of endurance of the mechanical and formal in the study 
of this subject. 

In the back of the book will be found biographical 
sketches of the authors. These appear alphabetically 
and in the briefest possible form, each name being 
followed by a complete list of the writings of the author. 
If the teacher wishes to pursue such study further any 
good text in Southern literature will be helpful. The 
following works are of value: Southern Writers, by 
W. P. Trent; Southern Writers (vols I and II), by W. 
M. Baskerville; The Library of Southern Literature 
(13 vols); The South in the Building of the Nation 
(10 vols). To all of these works the editors express 
their obligation. 

Kind permission for the use of copyrighted materials 
has been granted by the following publishers and 
writers or representatives of writers, due acknowledg- 
ment of which has been made at the proper places in 
the text: Doubleday, Page and Company, The Mac- 
millan Company, Charles Scribner's Sons, The Hough- 
ton, Mifflin Company, P. J. Kenedy and Sons, Lothrop, 
Lee and Shepard, Small, Maynard and Company, Stone 
and Barringer, D. Apple ton and Company, B. F. John- 
son Publishing Company, The Century Company, G. P. 
Putnam^s Sons, Frederick A. Stokes Company, Yvon 
Pike, and William Gordon McCabe. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



PAGE 



INTRODUCTION 3 



I. STORIES AND ROMANCES 



The Fall of the House of 
Usher 

The Doom of Occonestoga 

The First Play Acted in 
America 

The Capture of Five Scotch- 
men 

Early Settlers 

The Tale of a " Live Oaker" 
The Keg of Powder . . . 

The Bear Hunt 

The Burial of the Guns 
Free Joe and the Rest of 

THE World .... 
Jean-ah Poquelin . . 

On Trial for His Life 
The Star in the Valley 



On a Day in June 

A Southern Hero 

New Type . . 



OF the 



Edgar Allan Poe . . 23 

William Gilmore Simms 50 

John Esten Cooke . . 70 

John Pendleton Ken- 
nedy 79 

John James Audubon . 89 

John James Audubon 93 

David Crockett ... 98 

David Crockett . . . 102 

Thomas Nelson Page . 109 

Joel Chandler Harris 139 
George Washington 

Cable 156 

John Fox, Jr. . . . 185 
Charles Egbert Crad- 

dock 197 

James Lane Allen . . 224 



Ellen Anderson Ghol- 
soN Glasgow . . . 



227 



II. POEMS 
nature poems 



Ethnogenesis . . 
Land of the South 

The Cotton Boll 



Henry Timrod . . . 241 
Alexander Beaufort 

Meek 242 

Henry Timrod . . . 244 



IX 



CONTENTS 



Spring 

The Song of the Chattahoo- 
chee 

Aspects of the Pines 
The Light'ood Fire 

October 

Away Down Home , 
Tampa Robins . . 
The Whippoorwill . 
To THE Mocking-Bird 

Alabama 

The Grapevine Swing 



PAGE 

Henry Timrod . . . 249 

Sidney Lanier . . . 252 

Paul Hamilton Hayne 254 

John Henry Boner , 255 

John Charles McNeill 256 

John Charles McNeill 258 

Sidney Lanier . , . 260 

Madison Cawein . . . 261 

Albert Pike .... 262 

Samuel Minturn Peck 265 

Samuel Minturn Peck 266 



tributes to southern heroes 

Virginians of the Valley . Francis Orrery Tick- 

NOR 268 

The Bivouac of the Dead . Theodore O'Hara . . 269 

Ode Henry Timrod . . . 273 

John Pelham James Ryder Randall 274 

AsHBY John Reuben Thompson 276 

A Grave in Hollywood Cem- 
etery Margaret JuNKiN Pres- 
ton 277 

The Sword of Robert Lee Abram Joseph Ryan . 279 



narratives in verse 



Christmas Night in the Quar- 
ters 

Music in Camp 

The Revenge of Hamish . . 
Macdonald's Raid .... 



Irwin Russell . . . 281 
John Reuben Thomp- 
son 291 

Sidney Lanier . . . 294 

Paul Hamilton Hayne 300 



POEMS OF LOVE 

To Helen Edgar Allan Poe . . 305 

Ulalume Edgar Allan Poe . . 306 

Annabel Lee Edgar Allan Poe . . 309 

To One in Paradise . . . Edgar Allan Poe . . 311 

My Springs Sidney Lanier . . . 312 

Evening Song ...... Sidney Lanier . . . 314 

Florence Vane Philip Pendleton 

Cooke 315 



CONTENTS xi 

PAGE 

My Star John Banister Tabb . 316 

The Half-Ring Moon . . . John Banister Tabb . 317 

Phyllis Samuel Minturn Peck 317 

A Health Edward Coate Pink- 

ney 319 

Dreaming in the Trenches William Gordon Mc- 

Cabe 320 

reflective poems 



i 



Poe's Cottage at Fordham John Henry Boner . 323 

Israfel Edgar Allan Poe . . 325 

A Common Thought . . . Henry Timrod . . . 327 
My Life is Like the Summer 

Rose Richard Henry Wilde 328 

A Ballad of Trees and the 

Master Sidney Lanier . . . 329 



in. LETTERS 



To His Daughter .... Thomas Jefferson . 

To Jefferson Smith . . . Thomas Jefferson . 

To His Sister Thomas Jefferson . 

To Governor Letcher . . Robert Edward Lee 
To THE Trustees of Wash- 
ington College .... Robert Edward Lee 
To Mrs. Jefferson Davis . Robert Edward Lee 
To His Daughter .... Robert Edward Lee 

To A Friend Mrs. Roger Pryor . 

To A Friend Mrs. Roger Pryor . 

To His Father Sidney Lanier . . 

To His Wife Sidney Lanier . . 



333 
335 
336 

337 

338 
339 
341 
343 
346 
351 
352 



IV. ORATIONS AND ADDRESSES 



The Compromise of 1850 . . 
Conclusion of Last Speech 

Eulogy ox Charles Sumner 

Abraham Lincoln .... 



Henry Clay .... 357 

John Caldwell Cal- 
houn 360 

Lucius Quintus Cincin- 

NATUS Lamar . . . 363 

Henry Watterson . . 372 



The New South Henry Woodfin Grady 375 



xii CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Sectionalism and National- 
ity Edwin Anderson Al- 
derman 388 

Education and Progress . . Benjamin Harvey Hill 401 

The School that Built a 

Town Walter Hines Page . 405 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 421 



1 



INTRODUCTION 



INTRODUCTION 

In the compilation of this volume the effort has been 
made to present some of the most important forms of 
prose and poetry. There will be found short stories, 
selections from historical romances, poems, essays, let- 
ters, and orations. 

First in point of interest are the short stories and the 
selections from historical romances, and first among 
these is Poe's Fall of the House of Usher. Poe's 
originality in defining, by theory and practice, the type 
of short story gives him the pre-eminent position among 
the short-story writers of the South, and indeed of 
America. In his review of Hawthorne's Twice Told 
Tales in 1842 he wrote the best statement of the prov- 
ince of this t}^e of fiction, and gave the best analysis 
of his own tales: 

"The ordinar}^ story is objectionable from its length, 
for reasons already stated in substance. As it cannot 
be read at one sitting, it deprives itself, of course, of 
the immense force derivable from totality. Worldly 
interests intervening during the pauses of perusal mod- 
ify, annul, or contract, in a greater or less degree, the 
impressions of the book. But simply cessation in read- 
ing would, of itself, be sufficient to destroy the true unity. 
In the brief tale, however, the author is enabled to carry 

out the fulness of his intention, be it what it may. Dur- 

3 



4 SOUTHERN PROSE .\XD POETRY 

ing the hour of perusal the soul of the reader is at 
the writer's control. There are no external or extrinsic 
influences — resulting from weariness or interruption. 

"A skilful literary artist has constructed a tale. If 
wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accommodate 
his incidents; but having conceived, with deliberate 
care, a certain unique or single effect to be \\Tought out, 
he then invents such incidents — then combines such 
events as may best aid him in establishing this pre- 
conceived effect. If his ver^' initial sentence tend not 
to the outbringing of this effect, then he has failed in his 
first step. In the whole composition there should be 
no word written of which the tendency, direct or in- 
direct, is not to the one pre-established design. As by 
such means, with such care and skill, a picture is at 
length painted which leaves in the mind of him who 
contemplates it with a kindred art a sense of the fullest 
satisfaction. The idea of the tale has been presented 
unblemished, because undisturbed; and this is an end 
unattainable by the novel. Undue brevity is just as 
exceptionable here as in the poem; but undue length 
is yet more to be avoided." 

TJie Fall of the House of Usher is a full realization 
of Poe's ideal as expressed in this quotation. It is the 
most t^'pical of his stories — in its plot, its background, 
and its characters. The "totality of effect" insisted 
upon as characteristic of everv stors' is produced in an 
impressive way in this tale. The story has no definite 
location on the map; and yet every detail of the back- 
ground contributes to the climax. The singularly 
drearv tract of countrv, the black and lurid tarn, the 



INTRODUCTION 5 

vacant eye-like windows, the few rank sedges, the white 
trunks of decayed trees, the gothic archway of the hall, 
the sombre tapestries of the walls, the ebon blackness 
of the floors, the phantasmagoric armorial trophies, 
the encrimsoned light and trellised panes of the windows 
— all these serve to render the total effect of the story 
startlingly impressive. Usher and his sister, like the 
heroes and heroines of Poe's other stories, are not flesh 
and blood characters, but rather fantastic creations of 
his own weird imagination. The general theme of the 
story — the passing away of a beautiful and fragile 
woman — is also characteristic, as is also the pellucid and 
at times highly colored style. If in his poetry Poe 
suggests comparison with Coleridge, in his prose one 
oftenest thinks of De Quincey. If at times he can be as 
clear cut in his style as the most extreme realist, at other 
times there is all the charm of melody and color. The 
pursuit of perfection in phrase and form was one of his 
most characteristic passions. After all, this is his great 
bequest to American, and especially to Southern, litera- 
ture. Hawthorne's story, The Artist of the Beautiful, 
is an admirable interpretation of Poe's life and art. 
Nowhere else in these selections will there be seen such 
felicity and finality of style and such perfection of liter- 
ary form as in The Fall of the House of Usher. In 
no other Southern stories is there such a steadfast ad- 
herence to the demands of art for art's sake. 

There is little of the Southern landscape or character 
in Poe's poetry or prose. His imagination found a 
home only in far off lands, sometimes even in the Middle 
Ages, or yet again in the fantas^^ic places of his own mind 



G SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

as it went voyaging through strange seas of imagination 
alone. "He haunted a borderland between the visible 
and the invisible, a land of waste places, ruined battle- 
ments, and shadowy forms, wrapped in a melancholy 
twilight." 

And yet there is a sense in which Poe was Southern, 
in temperament, and even in art. One may not go so 
far as a recent American critic when he says that Poe 
was as much the product of the South as Whittier was 
of New England, and still maintain that he has a dis- 
tinct place among Southern writers. Though born in 
Boston he spent his youthful days in Richmond, as an 
adopted son in a family that was in close touch with 
the best elements of Southern life. At a Richmond 
classical school he received that classical training which 
was particularly characteristic of the ante-bellum South. 
He resided for one scholastic year at the newly estab- 
lished University of Virginia, where he added to his 
knowledge of the classics an intimate study of modern 
literature. In Baltimore he received his first recognition 
when the committee of which John P. Kennedy was a 
member discovered his genius as a poet and as a writer 
of short stories. In 1835 he became editor of the most 
distinctively Southern magazine, the Southern Literary 
Messenger y in which he published some of his best tales 
and his criticisms of contemporary writings. It is in his 
critical writings that Poe's Southern bent of mind was 
most notably evinced ; for here he manifested a charac- 
teristic prejudice against New England writers and a 
corresponding sympathy with Southern writers. "He 
always lived in the North as an alien," says Professor 



INTRODUCTION 7 

Woodberry, "somewhat on his guard, somewhat con- 
temptuous of his surroundings, always homesick for the 
place that he well knew would know him no more though 
he were to return to it." No apology need therefore be 
made for including him among Southern writers. 

More characteristic of the South, however, were those 
romances in which William Gilmore Simms, John P. 
Kennedy, John Esten Cooke, and later writers, realizing 
the wealth of material in Southern history and tradition, 
wrought out their stirring historical romances. The 
selections from these romances, included in this volume, 
suggest various periods of Southern and national his- 
tory. The historical background of Simms 's The 
Yemassee is the conflict between the Indians and the 
English colonists of South Carolina about the year 1715. 
Simms's early life fitted him pre-eminently for the role 
of a romancer. The stories of the Revolutionary War 
and of the early colonial era, told to him by his grand- 
mother, the weird tales of ghosts and witches which he 
gathered from other story-tellers, and his actual contact 
with pioneers and Indians in the South-west — all stimu- 
lated in him a natural fondness for stirring, romantic 
themes. This temperament, enhanced by study of 
colonial history and traditions, culminated in The 
Yemassee, and in his romance of the Revolution, 
The Partisan. 

A better story of the Revolutionary era, however, is 
Horse-Shoe Robinson, published in 1835 by John P. 
Kennedy. The selection given from this book pre- 
sents some idea of the romantic warfare carried on by 
the mountaineers of North and South Carolina against 



8 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

the despotism of the Tory ascendancy. The elemental 
humanity, the courage, the resourcefulness, and the 
perseverance of Horse-Shoe Robinson are suggested in 
Kennedy's characterization of him and in the capture 
of the five Scotchmen with the aid of a brave and ad- 
venturous lad. 

John Esten Cooke, who is more popularly known 
by his stories of the Civil War, is represented by a cita- 
tion from his earliest book, The Virginia Comedians^ 
or Old Days in the Old Dominion, the background 
of which is the era just preceding the outbreak of the 
Revolutionary War. The scene is laid in Williamsburg 
at the time when the new forces of freedom and democ- 
racy were struggling against the Established Church and 
the feudal system of society which then prevailed in 
Virginia. Perhaps the most interesting part of the novel 
is the account given of the acting of the first play ever 
performed in America, The Merchant of Venice. 

While they do not belong strictly to this section of 
the book, the editors have thought well to put here the 
selections from Audubon and Crockett, as giving better 
than any fiction the real spirit of the pioneer days. 

Of the stirring incidents of the Civil War, Mr. Thomas 
Nelson Page's Burial of the Guns gives a most strik- 
ing suggestion. The story is complete in itself, and 
in its presentation of the heroism and tragedy of that 
fateful era leaves lifetle to be said. The time has not 
yet come when the full meaning of that great struggle 
can be suggested in dramatic or romantic form, but the 
stories of Mr. Page, notably Marse Chan and Meh Lady, 
are clearly an anticipation of greater work yet to be 



INTRODLXTION 9 

done. The transition from the old order to the new is 
best seen in the novels of another Virginia writer, Miss 
Ellen Glasgow. The Voice of the People, from which 
a selection is given, is not only a work of art, but is a 
real contribution to the interpretation of the present 
South. 

Distinctly different in t}^e and in quality from Poe's 
stories and from the selections from historical romances 
are the short stories of Southern writers which have to 
do with local scenes and characters. The short story 
after the Civil War had to do principally with the 
characteristics of the various sections and even States 
of the Republic. Bret Harte, in his stories of Western 
life, inaugurated a new era in American fiction. A 
host of American writers have followed his lead in ex- 
ploring the different sections and in explaining the peo- 
ple of one State to the people of the others. The short 
stor\^ has become the national mode of utterance in 
the thino^s of the imaojination. In the absence of anv 
truly national novel, which has so long been the ideal 
of American story writers and critics, these short stories 
of local color have served to reveal provincial t}^es and 
local scenes. With their contemporaries in all sections 
of the country the Southern writers have wrought to 
this end. About 1875 their short stories began to 
appear in Northern magazines. Gradually they re- 
vealed all the picturesque phases of Southern life and 
scenery. Their writings have served to reveal the South 
to itself and to the nation. To these authors literature 
has been a profession and not a pastime. They have 
written with discipline and restraint, and the best of 



10 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

them take their rank among the best contemporary 
writers of America. 

In some of the short stories that are selected as t}^i- 
cal the interest is that of the character sketch. From 
Southern stories and novels there mig-ht be o^athered 
passages which would be a complete portrait gallery 
of Southern men and women. In the stories of Joel 
Chandler Harris, Charles Egbert Craddock, Thomas 
Nelson Page, George W. Cable, James Lane Allen, and 
John Fox we have a great variety of types — the old-time 
negro, the Southern gentleman and lady, the Creole, the 
mountaineer, and the Kentuckians of the blue-grass 
country. In these provincial types, and especially in 
Free Joe and Jean-ah Poquelin, we have the portrayal 
of that elemental nature which makes the whole world 
kin. 

In other stories the chief point of interest is the del- 
icate handling of landscape. Southern writers have 
been quick to realize the wealth of natural scenery that 
awaited writers with seeing eyes and portraying hands. 
No writer has displayed greater power of description 
than Miss Murfree, from whose stories a series of mas- 
terly paintings might be sketched. In The Star in the 
Valley the mountains play an important role. They, 
along with the trees, the sun, moon, and stars, are 
not merely spectators but participants. In fact, one feels 
at times that the author has let her undoubted ability of 
description interfere with her dramatic presentation of 
characters. She lingers over the setting of her pictures 
too long; and yet in this way she has ministered to one 



INTRODUCTION 11 

of the essential appeals made by modern fiction — the 
feeling for landscape. 

The same point may be made with regard to the ex- 
quisite landscapes of Mr. James Lane Allen's stories. 
Nature is an important character in his Kentucky Car- 
dinal, The Choir Invisible, and the Summer in Arcady. 
Her influence streams through the story, sometimes 
serving as a background, but oftener as a sort of chorus 
to the drama of human nature. His ability to describe 
and interpret nature may well be seen in the selection 
entitled On a Day in June. Only the careful reading 
of all his stories will give one any adequate idea of the 
poetic glamour which he has cast over those fair regions, 
or his romantic, and even transcendental, attitude to 
nature. 

Surely no American writer ever had a finer background 
for his stories and novels than George W. Cable. In 
his Old Creole Days and The Grandissimes we have 
the artistic blending of scenery, architecture, and 
romance. Now it is the rich luxuriance of the swamps 
and bayous, now the Rue Royale — a long narrowing 
perspective of arcades, lattices, balconies, dormer win- 
dows, and blue sky — and yet again some large old 
Creole mansion that survives as a reminder of the ro- 
mantic past. 

It must not be thought, however, that these story 
writers, in suggesting the wealth of natural scenery 
and human nature, are lacking in the ability to construct 
artistic plots. None of them equals Poe in his ability 
to produce a single startling plot. And yet the short 
stories that are presented in this book deserve to rank, 



12 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

even from the stand-point of artistic structure, among 
the best American stories. 

Aside from all question of local background or t}^es 
of human nature or plot, Southern fiction is pre-emi- 
nently the product of the Southern temperament. A 
writer in the Atlantic Monthly, reviewing Southern fic- 
tion as a whole, said in 1885: "It is not the subjects 
offered by Southern writers which interest us so much 
as the manifestation of a spirit which seemed to be dying 
out of our literature. . . . We should not be greatly 
surprised if the historian of our literature a few gen- 
erations hence should take note of an enlargement of 
American letters at this time through the agency of a 
new South. . . . The North refines to a keen analysis, 
the South enriches through a generous imagination. 
The breadth which characterizes the best Southern writ- 
ings, the large free handling, the confident imagination, 
are legitimate results of the careless yet masterful and 
hospitable life which has pervaded that section. We 
have had our laugh at the florid, coarse-flavored litera- 
ture which has not yet disappeared at the South, but we 
are witnessing now the rise of a school that shows us 
the worth of generous nature when it has been schooled 
and ordered." 

The same may be said of the best Southern poetry, 
which forms the second part of this volume. The 
selections have been arranged in groups rather than 
chronologically or according to their authors. They 
are printed in the following divisions: nature poems, 
tributes to Southern heroes, narratives in verse, love 
poems, and reflective poems. It will be seen that these 



INTRODUCTION 13 

subjects indicate the various appeals that poetry makes 
to the human heart. For a long time the writing of 
poetry was at a discount in the South. The author 
of one of the most popular ante-bellum lyrics was 
urged by his friends never to have anything to do 
with poetry — advice that was typical of the attitude 
of many Southerners. Those who did write poetry 
paid little heed to the human life or nature about 
them. Their poetry was likely to be sentimental and 
in its choice of subjects remote from the interests of 
everyday life. Following the lead of Byron, they had 
a view of life which was melancholy and at times 
morbid. 

Even in the ante-bellum period, however, there were 
some poems that suggested the characteristic land- 
scapes of the South. We find such poems in Meek's 
Land of the South, Timrod's Cotton Boll, and in poems 
on the mocking-bird by Albert Pike, Meek, and Richard 
Henry Wilde. 

The writers of the new South have, like the short- 
story writers already mentioned, been far more sensi- 
tive to local influence. Paul Hamilton Hayne, after 
the Civil War, lived at Copse Hill, near Augusta, Geor- 
gia. His devotion to poetry under so many adverse cir- 
cumstances is one of the finest traditions of American 
literary history. He lived in a cabin of his own building 
— an extraordinary shanty which seemed to have been 
tossed by a supernatural pitchfork upon the most deso- 
late of hills. Around him, however, were forests of 
pines, and of these in all their relations to cloud and sky 
and sun he has written many of his best poems, some of 
which are reproduced in the selections herewith given. 



{ 



14 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Another Georgia poet, Sidney Lanier, wrote with 
added poetic passion and power of the marshes, moun- 
tains, rivers, and birds of the South. The song of the 
river that flowed by his birthplace is reproduced in 
The Song of the Chattahoochee ; the robins of Tampa 
made melody for his weary soul and sing even now in 
his onomatopoetic lines. For the marshes of the Georgia 
coast he essayed to do what Wordsworth did for the 
mountains and lakes of northern England. It is a great 
misfortune that he did not live to complete the series of 
poems which he planned on the marshes of Glynn. 
One may take consolation for the fact, however, in 
the two poems which he did leave — Sunrise and The 
Marshes of Glynn. Both poems rank among the best 
interpretations of landscape in American poetry, and 
the latter especially, in its orchestral-like music and in 
its marvellous blending of forest, marsh, sky and sea, 
should be considered one of the masterpieces of Am- 
erican poetry. 

In nearly every other Southern State poets have 
written of particular aspects of nature — notably Madi- 
son Cawein of Kentucky, Samuel Minturn Peck of Al- 
abama, John Charles McNeill and John Henry Boner 
of North Carolina, and Walter Malone of Tennessee. 
Their poems do not show the originality of Timrod 
and Lanier; they are typical of the magazine poetry of 
the present. 

Nearer to the popular mind and heart are the poems 
of war. It should always be remembered that it was a 
Southerner, Francis Scott Key, who in the dawn of a fine 



INTRODUCTION 15 

day in Chesapeake Bay, seeing the flag of his country 
floating upon a vessel at the time of the War of 1812, 
composed the Hues of The Star - Spangled Banner. 
Theodore O'Hara wrote a dirge on the heroes of the 
Mexican War, which is now quoted in memory of all 
the brave who have died upon the field of battle. But 
it was the Civil War that awoke the passion of poetry 
in the Southern heart. When there flashed upon poetic 
souls, not the political issues that were at stake, but the 
great human situation of the struggle, they gave voice 
to the pent-up feelings of a new nation. James Ryder 
Randall, a native of Maryland, but at that time a 
teacher in Louisiana, could not sleep one night because 
he was thinking of an invading army in his native State, 
and in the darkness of the night he composed My 
Maryland. The words were at once set to music and 
became the inspiration of Southern soldiers. Never 
again did the author feel the lyrical impulse, but for a 
moment he caught the notes of the eternal melodies. 
Henry Timrod, who at the beginning of the Civil War 
had just begun to attract the attention of readers and 
critics throughout the country, was lifted to the heights 
of poetic inspiration by the struggle of his people. 
His poems, Carolina and Ethnogenesis, express the real 
spirit of South Carolina. After the War, when he was 
suffering from the pangs of poverty and disease, he 
wrote the Ode on the Confederate Dead — "as perfect 
in its tone and workmanship as though it had come 
out of the Greek anthology." The last stanza merits 
the praise that Holmes gave to Emerson's Concord 
Hymn: the words seem as if they had been carved 



16 SOUTHERN PROSE .\XD POETRY 

upon marble for a thousand years. Other poets wrote 
at different times during the War, but of their poems 
only a few are of any noteworthy value. Different from 
the poems which served to interpret the significance of 
the conflict are the tributes to various soldiers who fell 
in the war, notably Ticknor's Little Giffen, Randall's 
John Pelham, and Thompson's Ashhy. When the 
War was over, and the Southern people sat in the 
shadow of great disappointment and despair. Father 
Ryan wrote The Conquered Banner and The Sicord of 
Robert Lee — poems which expressed in popular verse 
the undaunted and unbroken spirit of the South. It is 
easy to see the defects of his poetry, but it is also easy 
to understand why his lines have so sung themselves 
into the heart of his people. 

The patriotic poetry of the South does not end, how- 
ever, with the note of defeat and despair. Hayne, in 
his tributes to Longfellow and Whittier, struck the new 
note of nationalism, and Maurice Thompson inter- 
preted the aspirations of a new era when he wrote of 

" The South whose gaze is cast 
No more upon the past. 
But whose bright eyes the skies of promise sweep. 
Whose feet in paths of progress swiftly leap; 

And whose past thoughts, like cheerful rivers run. 
Through odorous ways to meet the morning sun!" 

But it was Sidney Lanier, who having been a brave Con- 
federate soldier and having suffered from the strain and 
stress of the Reconstruction days, interpreted the new 
national spirit of the Southern people in his Centennial 



INTRODUCTION 17 

poem of 1876. In the very same year he wrote a much 
better poem, The Psalm of the West, in which he sings 
the triumph of freedom and nationaHsm. In no other 
American verse is there a more vivid reahzation of the 
meaning of the RepubHc in the larger hfe of the world 
than in the Columbus sonnets of this poem. 

Of the other divisions of poems little need be said. 
Unfortunately, Southern poets have not made use of 
legends and stories to the same degree that the poets of 
New England have. The few given in this volume are 
prophetic of what may be done with this type of verse 
rather than suggestive of the actual achievement. Of 
the love poems the most significant are those of Poe and 
Lanier, Poe best representing the note of melancholy 
at the thought of the decline and passing away of a 
beautiful woman, and Lanier the note of aspiration and 
hope in the rapture of a human soul at the triumph of 
love. The two poets wrote out of the experience of their 
lives. There is no more pathetic and tragic love story 
in literary history than that of Poe and Virginia Clemm ; 
and there is no more inspiring and romantic love story 
than that of Sidney Lanier and Mary Day. Of less 
poetic passion but of perhaps a finer delicacy of art 
are the love poems of Pinckney and of the late Father 
Tabb. No American Anthology would be complete 
without the sad and tender poems of reflection. 

A distinct feature of the present volume is a collection 
of letters, which range all the way from the simplest 
statement of facts to the highest interpretations of art 



18 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

and duty. Some of them will serve as models for clear 
cut simple letters — a need emphasized to an increasing 
degree by recent books on composition and rhetoric. 
Some of them are interesting contemporary accounts 
of important historical incidents. Sidney Lanier's 
letters suggest in a very striking vv^ay two or three of the 
most significant aspects of his own genius. The most 
important of all are those of Robert E. Lee. This idol 
of the Southern people has left no other record of his 
mind and heart. He wrote no reminiscences nor his- 
torical accounts of the battles in which he was the chief 
figure. So his letters will always have an especial value. 
Written in clear, simple style, and in a beautiful, calm 
spirit, they serve as the best interpretation of his great 
life. The more one reads them, especially those written 
after the War, the more he feels that as Lee was the 
climax of the old South, so he was the leader and the 
prophet of the new South. All the forces of enlighten- 
ment that are now remaking Southern civilization should 
claim him as the champion of nationalism rather than 
sectionalism, of reason rather than passion, of fairness 
rather than prejudice, of progress rather than reaction, 
of constructive work rather than futile obstruction. 

Perhaps in no other part of the world was the orator 
held in such high repute as in the South before the War. 
It has been customary to justify the lack of creative 
literature in that period by citing the fact that the South 
led the Nation in oratory. "It was the spoken word, 
not the printed page, that guided the thought, aroused 
enthusiasm, made historv. .These were the true uni- 



INTRODUCTION 19 

versities of the lower South — law courts and the great 
religious and political gatherings — as truly as a grove 
was the university of Athens. Th6 man who wished to 
lead or to teach must be able to speak. He could not 
touch the artistic sense of the people with pictures, or 
statues, or verse, or plays; he must charm them with 
voice and gesture." ^ 

It has not been thought necessary to republish many of 
those orations which are so familiar already to Southern 
youth. Of the earlier speeches, only one each of Calhoun 
and Clay is here given — the one the best expression 
of the attitude of those who favored secession, and the 
other typical of those who would save the Union at any 
cost. Emphasis has been laid upon the orations of the 
leaders of a more recent era — speeches which express 
the spirit of progress and nationalism now so marked 
in Southern life. Senator Hill's speech delivered in 
1871 is remarkable for its acute analysis of the defects 
of the old social order and for its prophecy of the new 
industrial era. Lamar's speech on Charles Sumner 
is t)^ical of that broader spirit which would sympa- 
thetically understand the motives and ideas of the people 
of New England. Many can still recall the wonderful 
effect produced by Henry Grady's speech at the New 
England banquet in New York, when he so eloquently 
interpreted the South to the nation and the nation to the 
South. In it we have an epitome of the work accom- 
plished by him in his brief and brilliant career as editor 
and orator. Henry Watterson's tribute to Abraham 

^ The Lower South in American History, by William Garrot 
Brown, 



I 



20 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Lincoln is likewise an expression of the increasing 
admiration the South has for this great national hero. 
President Alderman's Sectionalism and Nationality is 
an interpretation of the significance of the great changes 
that have been wrought during the past generation; 
while Mr. Walter H. Page's The School that Built a 
Town is a prophecy of the marvellous future toward 
which the South is now so surely moving. 



I 

STORIES AND ROMANCES 



i 



THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER' 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 

Son coeur est un luth suspendu; 
Sitot qu'on le touche il resonne. 

Bebanger.2 

During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day 
in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung op- 
pressively low in the heavens, I had been passing 
alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary 
tract of country; and at length found myself, as the 
shades of the evening drew on, within view of the 
melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was 
— but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense 
of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say 
insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any 
of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, 
with which the mind usually receives even the stern- 
est natural images of the desolate or terrible. I 
looked upon the scene before me — upon the mere 
house, and the simple landscape features of the do- 
main, upon the bleak walls, upon the vacant eye- 

^ The Fall of The House of Usher was first published in the 
Gentleman's Magazine for September, 1839. Poe's name in litera- 
ture does not rest upon this story, but it constitutes one of his 
characteristic descriptions of the unreal, ghostly, and supernatural 
world, in which department he made for himself an enduring 
fame. 

- "His heart is a suspended lute; as soon as it is touched it 
resounds." — J. P. de Beranger (1780-1857), a popular French 
lyric poet. 

23 



24 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

like windows, upon a few rank sedges, and upon a 
few white trunks of decayed trees — with an utter de- 
pression of soul, which I can compare to no earthly 
sensation more properly than to the after-dream of 
the reveller upon opium; the bitter lapse into every- 
day life, the hideous dropping off of the veil. There 
was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart — 
an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goad- 
ing of the imagination could torture into aught of 
the sublime. What was it — I paused to think — what 
was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of 
the House of Usher? It was a mystery all insoluble; 
nor could L grapple with the shadowy fancies that 
crowded upon me as I pondered. I was forced to 
fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion, that 
while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very 
simple natural objects which have the power of thus 
affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among 
considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, 
I reflected, that a mere different arrangement of the 
particulars of the scene, of the details of the picture, 
would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihil- 
ate, its capacity for sorrowful impression; and act- 
ing upon this idea, I reined my horse to the precipitous 
brink of a black and lurid tarn^ that lay in unruffled 
lustre by the dwelling, and gazed down — but with 
a shudder even more thrilling than before — upon the 
remodelled and inverted images of the gray sedge, 
and the ghastly tree stems, and the vacant and eye- 
like windows. 

Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now pro- 
posed to myself a sojourn of some weeks. Its pro- 
prietor, Roderick Usher, had been one of my boon 
^ A small mountain lake. 



THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 25 

companions in boyhood; but many years had elapsed 
since our last meeting. A letter, however, had lately 
reached me in a distant part of the country — a let- 
ter from him — which in its wildly importunate nat- 
ure had admitted of no other than a personal reply. 
The MS. gave evidence of nervous agitation. The 
writer spoke of acute bodily illness, of a mental dis- 
order which oppressed him, and of an earnest desire 
to see me, as his best, and indeed his only personal 
friend, with a view of attempting, by the cheerful- 
ness of my society, some alleviation of his malady. 
It was the manner in which all this, and much more, 
was said — it was the apparent heart that went with 
his request — which allowed me no room for hesita- 
tion; and I accordingly obeyed forthwith what I still 
considered a very singular summons. 

Although as boys we had been even intimate as- 
sociates, yet I really knew little of my friend. His 
reserve had been always excessive and habitual. I 
was aware, however, that his very ancient family 
had been noted, time out of mind, for a peculiar sen- 
sibility of temperament, displaying itself, through 
long ages, in many works of exalted art, and mani- 
fested of late in repeated deeds of munificent yet un- 
obtrusive charity, as well as in a passionate devo- 
tion to the intricacies, perhaps even more than to the 
orthodox and easily recognizable beauties, of musi- 
cal science. I had learned, too, the very remark- 
able fact that the stem of the Usher race, all time- 
honored as it was, had put forth at no period any 
enduring branch; in other words, that the entire 
family lay in the direct line of descent, and had al- 
ways, with very trifling and very temporary varia- 
tion, so lain. It was this deficiency, I considered, 



) 



26 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

while running over in thought the perfect keeping 
of the character of the premises with the accredited 
character of the people, and while speculating upon 
the possible influence which the one, in the long lapse 
of centuries, might have exercised upon the other — it 
was this deficiency, perhaps, of collateral issue, and 
the consequent undeviating transmission from sire 
to son of the patrimony with the name, which had, 
at length, so identified the two as to merge the orig- 
inal title of the estate in the quaint and equivocal 
appellation of the "House of Usher" — an appella- 
tion which seemed to include, in the minds of the 
peasantry who used it, both the family and the fam- 
ily mansion. 

I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat 
childish experiment — that of looking down within 
the tarn — had been to deepen the first singular im- 
pression. There can be no doubt that the conscious- 
ness of the rapid increase of my superstition — for 
why should I not so term it? — served mainly to ac- 
celerate the increase itself. Such, I have long known, 
is the paradoxical law of all sentiments having terror 
as a basis. And it might have been for this reason 
only, that, when I again uplifted my eyes to the house 
itself, from its image in the pool, there grew in my 
mind a strange fancy — a fancy so ridiculous, indeed, 
that I but mention it to show the vivid force of the 
sensations which oppressed me. I had so worked 
upon my imagination as really to beheve that about 
the whole mansion and domain there hung an atmos- 
phere peculiar to themselves and their immediate 
vicinity — an atmosphere which had no affinity with 
the air of heaven, but which had reeked up from the 
decayed trees, and the gray wall, and the silent tarn — 



THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 27 

a pestilent and mystic vapor, dull, sluggish, faintly dis- 
cernible, and leaden-hued. 

Shaking off from my spirit what must have been 
a dream, I scanned more narrowly the real aspect of 
the building. Its principal feature seemed to be 
that of an excessive antiquity. The discoloration 
of ages had been great. Minute fungi overspread the 
whole exterior, hanging in a fine tangled web-work 
from the eaves. Yet all this was apart from any ex- 
traordinary dilapidation. No portion of the masonry 
had fallen; and there appeared to be a wild incon- 
sistency between its still perfect adaptation of parts 
and the crumbling condition of the individual stones. 
In this there was much that reminded me of the spe- 
cious totality of old wood-work which has rotted for 
long years in some neglected vault, with no disturb- 
ance from the breath of the external air. Beyond 
this indication of extensive decay, however, the fabric 
gave little token of instability. Perhaps the eye of 
a scrutinizing observer might have discovered a barely 
perceptible fissure, which, extending from the roof 
of the building in front, made its way down the wall 
in a zig-zag direction, until it became lost in the sullen 
waters of the tarn. 

Noticing these things, I rode over a short cause- 
way to the house. A servant in waiting took my 
horse, and I entered the Gothic archway of the hall. 
A valet, of stealthy step, thence conducted me, in 
silence, through many dark and intricate passages 
in my progress to the studio of his master. Much 
that I encountered on the way contributed, I know 
not how, to heighten the vague sentiments of which 
I have already spoken. While the objects around 
me — while the carvings of the ceilings, the sombre 



I 



28 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

tapestries of the walls, the ebon blackness of the floors, 
and the phantasmagoric armorial trophies which 
rattled as I strode, were but matters to which, or to 
such as which, I had been accustomed from my infancy 
• — while I hesitated not to acknowledge how familiar 
was all this — I still wondered to find how unfamiliar 
were the fancies which ordinary images were stirring 
up. On one of the staircases, I met the physician 
of the family. His countenance, I thought, wore a 
mingled expression of low cunning and perplexity. 
He accosted me with trepidation and passed on. The 
valet now threw open a door and ushered me into the 
presence of his master. 

The room in w^hich I found myself was very large 
and lofty. The windows were long, narrow, and 
pointed, and at so vast a distance from the black 
oaken floor as to be altogether inaccessible from with- 
in. Feeble gleams of encrimsoned light made their 
way through the trellised panes, and served to render 
sufficiently distinct the more prominent objects around; 
the eye, however, struggled in vain to reach the re- 
moter angles of the chamber, or the recesses of the 
vaulted and fretted ceiling. Dark draperies hung 
upon the walls. The general furniture was profuse, 
comfortless, antique, and tattered. INIany books and 
musical instruments lay ..scattered about, but failed to 
give any vitality to the scene. I felt that I breathed 
an atmosphere of sorrow. An air of stern, deep, and 
irredeemable gloom hung over and pervaded all. 

Upon my entrance. Usher arose from a sofa on 
which he had been lying at full length, and greeted 
me with a vivacious warmth which had much in it, 
I at first thought, of an overdone cordiality — of the 
constrained effort of the ennuy'e man of the world. 



THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 29 

A glance, however, at his countenance, convinced 
me of his perfect sincerity. We sat down; and for 
some moments, while he spoke not, I gazed upon 
him with a feeling half of pity, half of awe. Surely 
man had never before so terribly altered, in so brief 
a period, as had Roderick Usher! It was with difh- 
culty that I could bring myself to admit the identity 
of the wan being before me with the companion of 
my early boyhood. Yet the character of his face 
had been at all times remarkable. A cadaverousness 
of complexion; an eye large, liquid, and luminous 
beyond comparison; lips somewhat thin and very 
pallid, but of a surpassingly beautiful curve; a nose 
of delicate Hebrew model,^ but with a breadth of nos- 
tril unusual in similar formations; a finely moulded 
chin, speaking, in its want of prominence, of a want 
of moral energy; hair of a more than web-like soft- 
ness and tenuity; these features, with an inordinate 
expansion above the regions of the temple, made up 
altogether a countenance not easily to be forgotten. 
And now in the mere exaggeration of the prevail- 
ing character of these features, and of the expres- 
sion they were wont to convey, lay so much of change 
that I doubted to whom I spoke. The now ghastly 
pallor of the skin, and the now miraculous lustre of 
the eye, above all things startled and even awed me. 
The silken hair, too, had been suffered to grow all 
unheeded, and as, in its wild gossamer texture, it 
floated rather than fell about the face, I could not, 
even with effort, connect its arabesque expression 
with any idea of simple humanity. 

^ In his Ligeia Poe has this sentence : " I looked at the deli- 
cate outlines of the nose, and nowhere but in the graceful medal- 
lions of the Hebrews had I beheld a similar perfection," 



30 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

In the manner of my friend I was at once struck 
with an incoherence — an inconsistency; and I soon 
found this to arise from a series of feeble and futile 
struggles to overcome an habitual trepidancy — an 
excessive nervous agitation. For something of this 
nature I had indeed been prepared, no less by his let- 
ter than by reminiscences of certain boyish traits, 
and by conclusions deduced from his peculiar phys' 
ical conformation and temperament. His action was 
alternately vivacious and sullen. His voice varied 
rapidly from a tremulous indecision (when the ani- 
mal spirits seemed utterly in abeyance) to that species 
of energetic concision — that abrupt, w^eighty, un- 
hurried, and hollow-sounding enunciation — that leaden, 
self-balanced, and perfectly modulated guttural utter- 
ance, which may be observed in the lost drunkard, 
or the irreclaimable eater of opium, during the periods 
of his most intense excitement. 

It was thus that he spoke of the object of my visit, 
of his earnest desire to see me, and of the solace he 
expected me to afford him. He entered, at some 
length, into what he conceived to be the nature of 
his malady. It was, he said, a constitutional and a 
family evil, and one for which he despaired to find a 
remedy — a mere nervous affection, he immediately 
added, which would undoubtedly soon pass oflF. It 
displayed itself in a host of unnatural sensations. 
Some of these, as he detailed them, interested and 
bewildered me; although, perhaps, the terms and the 
general manner of the narration had their weight. 
He suffered much from a morbid acuteness of the 
senses; the most insipid food was alone endurable; 
he could wear only garments of certain texture; the 
odors of all flowers were oppressive; his eyes were 



THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 31 

tortured by even a faint light; and there were but 
peculiar sounds, and these from stringed instruments, 
which did not inspire him with horror. 

To an anomalous species of terror I found him a 
bounden slave. "I shall perish," said he, "I must 
perish in this deplorable folly. Thus, thus, and not 
otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the events of the 
future, not in themselves, but in their results. I 
shudder at the thought of any, even the most trivial, 
incident, which may operate upon this intolerable 
agitation of soul. I have, indeed, no abhorrence of 
danger, except in its absolute effect — in terror. In 
this unnerved — in this pitiable condition — I feel that 
the period will sooner or later arrive when I must 
abandon life and reason together, in some struggle 
with the grim phantasm, Fear." 

I learned, moreover, at intervals, and through broken 
and equivocal hints, another singular feature of his 
mental condition. He was enchained by certain super- 
stitious impressions in regard to the dwelling which 
he tenanted, and whence, for many years, he had never 
ventured forth — in regard to an influence whose sup- 
posititious force was conveyed in terms too shadowy 
here to be restated — an influence w^hich some pecu- 
liarities in the mere form and substance of his family 
mansion had, by dint of long sufferance, he said, 
obtained over his spirit — an effect which the physique 
of the gray walls and turrets, and of the dim tarn into 
which they all looked down, had, at length, brought 
about upon the morale^ of his existence. 

He admitted, however, although with hesitation, 
that much of the peculiar gloom which thus afflicted 

^ Mental state; spirit. 



32 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

him could be traced to a more natural and far more 
palpable origin — to the severe and long-continued 
illness — indeed to the evidently approaching dissolu- 
tion, of a tenderly beloved sister — his sole compan- 
ion for long years — his last and only relative on earth. 
''Her decease," he said, with a bitterness which I 
can never forget, "would leave him (him the hope- 
less and the frail) the last of the ancient race of the 
Ushers." ^Miile he spoke, the lady Madeline (for 
so was she called) passed slowly through a remote 
portion of the apartment, and, without having no- 
ticed my presence, disappeared. I regarded her with 
an utter astonishment not unmingled with dread — and 
yet I found it impossible to account for such feel- 
ings. A sensation of stupor oppressed me, as my 
eyes followed her retreating steps, ^^^len a door, 
at length, closed upon her, my glance sought instinc- 
tively and eagerly the countenance of the brother — 
but he had buried his face in his hands, and I could 
only perceive that a far more than ordinary wanness 
had overspread the emaciated fingers through which 
trickled many passionate tears. 

The disease of the lady Madeline had long baffled 
the skill of her physicians. A settled apathy, a grad- 
ual wasting away of the person, and frequent although 
transient affections of a partially cataleptical charac- 
ter, were the unusual diagnosis. Hitherto she had 
steadily borne up against the pressure of her malady, 
and had not betaken herself finally to bed; but, on 
the closing in of the evening of my arrival at the house, 
she succumbed (as her brother told me at night with 
inexpressible agitation) to the prostrating power of 
the destroyer; and I learned that the glimpse I had 
obtained of her person wouM .thus probably be the 



THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 33 

last I should obtain — that the lady, at least while liv- 
ing, would be seen by me no more. 

For several days ensuing, her name was unmen- 
tioned by either Usher or myself; and during this 
period I was busied in earnest endeavors to allevi- 
ate the melancholy of my friend. We painted and 
read together; or I listened, as if in a dream, to the 
wild improvisations of his speaking guitar. And thus, 
as a closer and still closer intimacy admitted me more 
unreservedly into the recesses of his spirit, the more 
bitterly did I perceive the futility of all attempt at 
cheering a mind from which darkness, as if an in- 
herent positive quality, poured forth upon all objects 
of the moral and physical universe, in one unceasing 
radiation of gloom. 

I shall ever bear about me a memory of the many 
solemn hours I thus spent alone with the master of 
the House of Usher. Yet I should fail in any at- 
tempt to convey an idea of the exact character of 
the studies, or of the occupations, in which he in- 
volved me, or led me the way. An excited and highly 
distempered ideality threw a sulphureous lustre over 
all. His long improvised dirges will ring forever in 
my ears. Among other things, I hold painfully in 
mind a certain singular perversion and amplification 
of the wild air of the last waltz of Von Weber. ^ From 
the paintings over which his elaborate fancy brooded, 
and which grew, touch by touch, into vaguenesses at 
which I shuddered the more thrillingly, because I 
shuddered knowing not why; — from these paintings 
(vivid as their images now are before me) I would 
in vain endeavor to educe more than a small portion 

1 Karl Maria, Baron von Weber (1786-1826), a celebrated 
German musician. 



I 



34 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

which should He within the compass of merely written 
words. By the utter simplicity, by the nakedness of 
his designs, he arrested and overawed attention. If 
ever mortal painted an idea, that mortal was Roderick 
Usher. For me at least, in the circumstances then sur- 
rounding me, there arose, out of the pure abstractions 
which the hypochondriac contrived to throw upon his 
canvas, an intensity of intolerable awe, no shadow of 
which felt I ever yet in the contemplation of the certainly 
glowing yet too concrete reveries of Fuseli.^ 

One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my 
friend, partaking not so rigidly of the spirit of ab- 
straction, may be shadowed forth, although feebly, 
in words. A small picture presented the interior of 
an immensely long and rectangular vault or tunnel, 
with low walls, smooth, white, and without interrup- 
tion or device. Certain accessory points of the design 
served well to convey the idea that this excavation 
lay at an exceeding depth below the surface of the 
earth. No outlet was observed in any portion of its 
vast extent, and no torch or other artificial source of 
light was discernible; yet a flood of intense rays rolled 
throughout, and bathed the whole in a ghastly and 
inappropriate splendor. 

I have just spoken of that morbid condition of the 
auditory nerve which rendered all music intolerable 
to the sufferer, with the exception of certain effects 
of stringed instruments. It was, perhaps, the nar- 
row limits to which he thus confined himself upon the 
guitar, which gave birth, in great measure, to the 
fantastic character of his performances. But the 
fervid facility of his impromptus could not be so ac- 
counted for. They must have been, and were, in the 

^ Henry Fuseli (1741-1825), born in Zurich, a famous artist. 



THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 35 

notes, as well as in the words of his wild fantasias 
(for he not unfrequently accompanied himself with 
rhymed verbal improvisations), the result of that in- 
tense mental collectedness and concentration to which 
I have previously alluded as observable only in par- 
ticular moments of the highest artificial excitement. 
The words of one of these rhapsodies I have easily 
remembered. I was, perhaps, the more forcibly 
impressed with it, as he gave it, because, in the under 
or mystic current of its meaning, I fancied that I per- 
ceived, and for the first time, a full consciousness, on 
the part of Usher, of the tottering of his . lofty reason 
upon her throne. The verses, which were entitled 
"The Haunted Palace," ran very nearly, if not ac- 
curately, thus: — 



Tn the greenest of our valleys 

By good angels tenanted, 
Once a fair and stately palace — 

Radiant palace — reared its head. 
In the monarch Thought's dominion, 

It stood there; 
Never seraph spread a pinion 

Over fabric half so fair. 

II 

'Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 

On its roof did float and flow, 
(This — all this — was in the olden 

Time long ago) 
And every gentle air that dalUed, 

In that sweet day, 
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

A winged odor went away. 



I 



36 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

III 

"Wanderers in that happy valley 

Through two luminous windows saw 
Spirits moving musically 

To a lute's well-tuned law, 
Round about a throne where, sitting, 

Porphyrogene,^ 
In state his glory well befitting, 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 

IV 

"And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

Was the fair palace door. 
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing. 

And sparkling evermore, 
A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty 

Was but to sing. 
In voices of surpassing beauty. 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 



"But evil things, in robes of sorrow. 

Assailed the monarch's high estate; 
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow 

Shall dawn upon him, desolate!) 
And round about his home the glory 

That blushed and bloomed 
Is but a dim-remembered story 

Of the old time entombed. 

VI 

"And travellers now within that valley 
Through the red-litten^ windows see 
Vast forms that move fantastically 
To a discordant melody; 

^ Of royal birth. ^ Old participial form of the verb light. 



THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 37 

While, like a ghastly rapid river, 

Through the pale door 
A hideous throng rush out forever. 

And laugh — but smile no more." 



I well remember that suggestions arising from this 
ballad led us into a train of thought, wherein there 
became manifest an opinion of Usher's which I men- 
tion not so much on account of its novelty, (for other 
men^ have thought thus,) as on account of the perti- 
nacity with which he maintained it. This opinion, in 
its general form, was that of the sentience^ of all vege- 
table things. But in his disordered fancy the idea had 
assumed a more daring character, and trespassed, under 
certain conditions, upon the kingdom of inorganiza- 
tion.^ I lack words to express the full extent, or the 
earnest abandon, of his persuasion. The belief, how- 
ever, was connected (as I have previously hinted) with 
the gray stones of the home of his forefathers. The 
conditions of the sentience had been here, he imagined, 
fulfilled in the method of collocation of these stones — 
in the order of their arrangement, as well as in that of 
the many fungi which over-spread them, and of the 
decayed trees which stood around — above all, in the 
long undisturbed endurance of this arrangement, and 
in its reduplication in the still waters of the tarn. Its 
evidence — the evidence of the sentience — was to be seen, 
he said (and I here started as he spoke), in the gradual 
yet certain condensation of an atmosphere of their own 
about the waters and the walls. The result was dis- 



^ Watson, Dr. Percival, Spallanzani, and especially the Bishop 
of Landaff. See Chemical Essays, vol. v. 
^ Possession of mental life. 
^ That is, the mineral kingdom. 



I 



38 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

coverable, he added, in that silent, yet importunate and 
terrible influence which for centuries had moulded the 
destinies of his family, and which made him what I now 
saw him — what he was. Such opinions need no com- 
ment, and I will make none. 

Our books — the books which, for years, had formed 
no small portion of the mental existence of the 
invalid — w^ere, as might be supposed, in strict keep- 
ing with this character of phantasm. We pored to- 
gether over such works as the Ververt et Char- 
treuse of Gresset^; the Belphegor of Machiavelli; ^ 
the Heaven and Hell of Swedenborg;^ the Subter- 
ranean Voyage of Nicholas Klimm by Holberg;^ the 
Chiromancy of Robert Flud,^ of Jean D'lndagine,^ and 
of De la Chambre; the Journey into the Blue Dis- 
tance of Tieck;' and the City of the Sun of Cam- 
panella.^ One favorite volume was a small octavo 
edition of the Directorium Inquisitorum, by the Domin- 
ican Eymeric de Gironne ; ^ and there were passages in 
Pomponius Mela,^*^ about the old African Satyrs and 



^ Jean Baptiste Gresset (1709-1777), a French poet and 
dramatist. 

^ Niccolo Maqhiavelli (1469-1527), a Florentine statesman and 
political writer. 

^Emanuel Swedenborg (1688-1772), a Swedish theologian 
and naturalist. 

* Ludwig von Holberg (1684-1754), a Danish poet and dram- 
atist. 

5 Robert Flud (1574-1637), an English physician and philoso- 
pher. 

^Jean D'Indagine and De la Chambre, European writers of 
the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries respectively. 

^ Ludwig Tieck (1773-1853), a German romanticist. 

^Tomaso Campanella (1568-1639), an Italian philosopher. 

^Nicholas Eymeric (1320-1399), a judge of the heretics in the 
Spanish Inquisition. 

'° Pomponius Mela, a Spanish geographer. 



THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 39 

^gipans/ over which Usher would sit dreaming for 
hours. His chief dehght, however, was found in the 
perusal of an exceedingly rare and curious book in 
quarto Gothic — the manual of a forgotten church — 
the VigilicB Mortuorum secundum Chorum Ecclesice 
MaguntincE." 

1 could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this 
work, and of its probable influence upon the hypo- 
chondriac, when one evening, having informed me 
abruptly that the lady Madeline was no more, he 
stated his intention of preserving her corpse for a 
fortnight (previously to its final interment), in one 
of the numerous vaults within the main walls of the 
building. The worldly reason, however, assigned 
for this singular proceeding, was one which I did 
not feel at liberty to dispute. The brother had been 
led to his resolution (so he told me) by considera- 
tion of the unusual character of the malady of the 
deceased, of certain obtrusive and eager inquiries 
on the part of her medical men, and of the remote 
and exposed situation of the burial-ground of the 
family. I will not deny that when I called to mind 
the sinister countenance of the person whom I met 
upon the staircase, on the day of my arrival at the 
house, I had no desire to oppose what I regarded as 
at best but a harmless, and by no means an unnatu- 
ral, precaution. 

At the request of Usher, I personally aided him in 
the arrangements for the temporary entombment. 
The body having been encoffined, we two alone bore 
it to its rest. The vault in which we placed it (and 

^ ^gipans, the god Pan. 

2 " Night Watches of the Dead hke unto the Choir of the 
Church of Maguntina." 



\ 



40 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

which had been so long unopened that our torches, 
half smothered in its oppressive atmosphere, gave 
us little opportunity for investigation) was small, 
damp, and entirely Avithout means of admission for 
light; lying, at great depth, immediately beneath 
that portion of the building in* which was my own 
sleeping apartment. It had been used, apparently, 
in remote feudal times, for the worst purposes of a 
donjon^-keep, and in later days as a place of deposit 
for powder, or some other highly combustible sub- 
stance, as a portion of its floor, and the whole in- 
terior of a long archway through which we reached 
it, were carefully sheathed with copper. The door, 
of massive iron, had been, also, similarly protected. 
Its immense weight caused an unusually sharp grat- 
ing sound, as it moved upon its hinges. 

Having deposited our mournful burden upon tres- 
sels within this region of horror, we partially turned 
aside the yet unscrewed lid of the coffin, and looked 
upon the face of the tenant. A striking similitude 
between the brother and sister now first arrested my 
attention; and Usher, divining, perhaps, my thoughts, 
murmured out some few words from which I learned 
that the deceased and himself had been twins, and 
that sympathies of a scarcely intelligible nature had 
always existed between them. Our glances, however, 
rested not long upon the dead — for we could not 
regard her unawed. The disease which had thus 
entombed the lady in the maturity of youth, had 
left, as usual in all maladies of a strictly cataleptical 
character, the mockery of a faint blush upon the bosom 
and the face, and that suspiciously lingering smile 
upon the lip which is so terrible in dea^h. We replaced 

^ Dungeoa, 



THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 41 

and screwed down the lid, and, having secured the door 
of iron, made our way, with toil, into the scarcely less 
gloomy apartments of the upper portion of the house. 

And now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, 
an observable change came over the features of the 
mental disorder of my friend. His ordinary man- 
ner had vanished. His ordinary occupations were 
neglected or forgotten. He roamed from chamber 
to chamber with hurried, unequal, and objectless 
step. The pallor of his countenance had assumed, if 
possible, a more ghastly hue — but the luminousness 
of his eye had utterly gone out. The once occasional 
huskiness of his tone was heard no more; and a tremu- 
lous quaver, as if of extreme terror, habitually char- 
acterized his utterance. There were times, indeed, 
when I thought his unceasingly agitated mind was 
laboring with some oppressive secret, to divulge which 
he struggled for the necessary courage. At times, 
again, I was obliged to resolve all into the mere inex- 
plicable vagaries of madness, for I beheld him gazing 
upon vacancy for long hours, in an attitude of the 
profoundest attention, as if listening to some imaginary 
sound. It w^as no wonder that his condition terrified — 
that it infected me. I felt creeping upon me, by slow 
yet certain degrees, the wild influences of his own 
fantastic yet impressive superstitions. 

It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in the 
night of the seventh or eighth day after the placing 
of the lady Madeline within the donjon, that I ex- 
perienced the full power of such feelings. Sleep 
came not near my couch — while the hours waned and 
waned away. I struggled to reason off the nervous- 
ness which had dominion over me. I endeavored to 
believe that much, if not all, of what I felt was due 



\ 



42 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

to the bewildering influence of the gloomy furniture 
of the room — of the dark and tattered draperies which, 
tortured into motion by the breath of a rising tem- 
pest, swayed fitfully to and fro upon the walls, and 
rustled uneasily about the decoration of the bed. 
But my efforts w^ere fruitless. An irrepressible tremor 
gradually pervaded my frame; and at length there 
sat upon my very heart an incubus of utterly causeless 
alarm. Shaking this off with a gasp and a struggle, I 
uplifted myself upon the pillows, and, peering earnestly 
within the intense darkness of the chamber, hearkened 
— I know not why, except that an instinctive spirit 
prompted me — to certain low and indefinite sounds 
which came through the pauses of the storm, at long 
intervals, I know not whence. Overpowered by an 
intense sentiment of horror, unaccountable yet unen- 
durable, I threw on my clothes with haste (for I felt 
that I should sleep no more during the night), and en- 
deavored to arouse myself from the pitiable condi- 
tion into which I had fallen, by pacing rapidly to 
and fro through the apartment. 

I had taken but few turns in this manner, when a 
light step on an adjoining staircase arrested my at- 
tention. I presently recognized it as that of Usher. 
In an instant afterward he rapped with a gentle touch 
at my door, and entered, bearing a lamp. His coun- 
tenance was, as usual, cadaverously wan — but, more- 
over, there was a species of mad hilarity in his eyes 
— an evidently restrained hysteria in his whole de- 
meanor. His air appalled me — but anything was 
preferable to the solitude which I had so long en- 
dured, and I even welcomed his presence as a relief. 

"And you have not seen it?" he said abruptly, 
after having stared about him. for some moments in 



THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 43 

silence — "you have not then seen it? — but, stay! you 
shall." Thus speaking, and having carefully shaded 
his lamp, he hurried to one of the casements, and 
threw it freely open to the storm. 

The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly 
lifted us from our feet. It was, indeed, a tempestu- 
ous yet sternly beautiful night, and one wildly singu- 
lar in its terror and its beauty. A whirlwind had ap- 
parently collected its force in our vicinity; for there 
were frequent and violent alterations in the direction 
of the wind; and the exceeding density of the clouds 
(which hung so low as to press upon the turrets of 
the house) did not prevent our perceiving the life- 
like velocity with which they flew careering from 
all points against each other, without passing away 
into the distance. I say that even their exceeding 
density did not prevent our perceiving this; yet we 
had no glimpse of the moon or stars, nor was there 
any flashing forth of the lightning. But the under 
surfaces of the huge masses of agitated vapor, as 
well as all terrestrial objects immediately around 
us, were glowing in the unnatural light of a faintly 
luminous and distinctly visible gaseous exhalation 
which hung about and enshrouded the mansion. 

"You must not — you shall not behold this!" said 
I, shudderingly, to Usher, as I led him with a gentle 
violence from the window to a seat. ''These ap- 
pearances, which bewilder you, are merely electrical 
phenomena not uncommon — or it may be that they 
have their ghastly origin in the rank miasma of the 
tarn. Let us close this casement; the air is chilling 
and dangerous to your frame. Here is one of your 
favorite romances. I will read, and you shall listen; — 
and so we will pass away .this terrible night together." 



\ 



44 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

The antique volume which I had taken up was the 
*'Mad Trist" ^ of Sir Launcelot Canning; but I had 
called it a favorite of Usher's more in sad jest than 
in earnest; for, in truth, there is little in its uncouth 
and unimaginative prolixity which could have had 
interest for the lofty and spiritual ideality of my friend. 
It was, how^ever, the only book immediately at hand; 
and I indulged a vague hope that the excitement which 
now agitated the hypochondriac might find relief 
(for history of mental disorder is full of similar anom- 
alies) even in the extremeness of the folly which I 
should read. Could I have judged, indeed, by the wild 
overstrained air of vivacity with which he hearkened, 
or apparently hearkened, to the words of the tale, I 
might well have congratulated myself upon the suc- 
cess of my design. 

I had arrived at that w^ell-known portion of the 
story where Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, having 
sought in vain for peaceable admission into the dwelling 
of the hermit, proceeds to make good an entrance by 
force. Here, it will be remembered, the words of 
the narrative run thus : 

"And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty heart, and 
who was now mighty withal, on account of the powerfulness of 
the wine which he had drunken, waited no longer to hold parley 
with the hermit, who, in sooth, was of an obstinate and maliceful 
turn, but, feeling the rain upon his shoulders, and fearing the 
rising of the tempest, uplifted his mace outright, and with blows 
made quickly room in the plankings of the door for his gaunt- 
leted hand; and now pulling therewith sturdily, he so cracked, 
and ripped, and tore all asunder, that the noise of the dry and 
hollow-sounding wood alarumed and reverberated throughout 
the forest." 

^ Both the title and the extracts are probably invented by Poe. 



THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 45 

At the termination of this sentence I started, 'and 
for a moment paused; for it appeared to me (al- 
though I at once concluded that my excited fancy 
had deceived me) — it appeared to me that from some 
very remote portion of the mansion there came, in- 
distinctly, to my ears, what might have been, in its 
exact similarity of character, the echo (but a stifled 
and dull one certainly) of the very cracking and rip- 
ping sound which Sir Launcelot had so particularly 
described. It was, beyond doubt, the coincidence 
alone which had arrested my attention; for, amid 
the rattling of the sashes of the casements, and the 
ordinary commingled noises of the still increasing 
storm, the sound, in itself, had nothing, surely, which 
should have interested or disturbed me. I continued 
the story: 

"But the good champion Ethelred, now entering within the 
door, was sore enraged and amazed to perceive no signal of the 
maliceful hermit; but, in the stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly 
and prodigious demeanor, and of a fiery tongue, which sate in 
guard before a palace of gold, with a floor of silver; and upon 
the wall there hung a shield of shining brass with this legend 
enwritten — 

Who entereth herein a conqueior hath bin; 
Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win. 

And Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck upon the head of the 
dragon, which fell before him, and gave up his pesty breath, with a 
shriek so horrid and harsh, and withal so piercing, that Ethelred 
had fain ^ to close his ears with his hands against the dreadful 
noise of it, the like whereof was never before heard." 

Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a 
feeling of wild amazement; for there could be no 

^ Wished (obsolete). 



I 



46 SOUTHERN PROSE .\XD POETRY 

doubt whatever that, in this instance, I did actually 
hear (although from what direction it proceeded I 
found it impossible to say) a low and apparently 
distant, but harsh, protracted, and most unusual 
screaming or grating sound — the exact counterpart 
of what my fancy had already conjured up for the 
dragon's unnatural shriek as described by the ro- 
mancer. 

Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon the occurrence 
of this second and most extraordinary coincidence, 
by a thousand conflicting sensations, in which won- 
der and extreme terror were predominant, I still re- 
tained sufficient presence of mind to avoid exciting, 
by any observation, the sensitive nervousness of my 
companion. I was by no means certain that he had 
noticed the sounds in question; although, assuredly, 
a strange alteration had during the last few minutes 
taken place in his demeanor. From a position front- 
ing my own, he had gradually brought round his 
chair, so as to sit with his face to the door of the cham- 
ber; and thus I could but partially perceive his feat- 
ures, although I saw that his lips trembled as if he 
were murmuring inaudibly. His head had dropped 
upon his breast — yet I knew that he was not asleep, 
from the wide and rigid opening of the eye as I caught 
a glance of it in profile. The motion of his body, too, was 
at variance with this idea — for he rocked from side to 
side with a gentle yet constant and uniform sway. 
Having rapidly taken notice of all this, I resumed the 
narrative of Sir Launcelot, which thus proceeded: 

"And now, the champion, having escaped from the terrible 
fury of the dragon, bethinking himself of the brazen shield, and 
of the breaking up of the enchantment which was upon it, re- 
moved the carcass from out of the way before him, and approached 



THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 47 

valorously over the silver pavement of the castle to where the 
shield was upon the wall; which in sooth tarried not for his full 
coming, but fell do^m at his feet upon the silver floor, with a 
mighty great and terrible ringing sound." 

No sooner had these syllables passed my lips, than 
— as if a shield of brass had indeed, at the moment, 
fallen heavily upon a floor of silver — I became aware 
of a distinct, hollow, metallic and clangorous, yet ap- 
parently muffled reverberation. Completely unnerved, 
I leaped to my feet; but the measured rocking move- 
ment of Usher was undisturbed. I rushed to the 
chair in which he sat. His eyes were bent fixedly 
before him, and throughout his whole countenance 
there reigned a stony rigidity. But, as I placed my 
hand upon his shoulder, there came a strong shud- 
der over his whole person; a sickly smile quivered 
about his lips ; and I saw that he spoke in a low, hur- 
ried, and gibbering murmur, as if unconscious of 
my presence. Bending closely over him, I at length 
drank in the hideous import of his words. 

''Not hear it? — yes, I hear it, and have heard it. 
Long — long — long — many minutes, many hours, many 
days, have I heard it — yet I dared not — oh, pity me, 
miserable wretch that I am! — I dared not — I dared 
not speak! We have put her living in the tomb! Said 
I not that my senses were acute? I now tell you that 
I heard her first feeble movements in the hollow coffin. 
I heard them — many, many days ago — yet I dared 
not — I dared not speak! And now — to-night — Ethel- 
red — ha! ha! — the breaking of the hermit's door, and 
the death-cry of the dragon, and the clangor of the 
shield! — say, rather, the rending of her coffin, and the 
grating of the iron hinges of her prison, and her strug- 
gles within the coppered archway of the vault! Oh, 
/ 



) 



48 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

whither shall I fly? Will she not be here anon? Is 
she not hurrying to upbraid me for my haste? Have 
I not heard her footstep on the stair? Do I not dis- 
tinguish that heavy and horrible beating of her heart? 
Madman!" — here he sprang furiously to his feet, and 
shrieked out his syllables, as if in the effort he were 
giving up his soul — ''Madman! I tell you that 

SHE NOW STANDS WITHOUT THE DOOR!" 

As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance 
there had been found the potency of a spell, the huge 
antique panels to which the speaker pointed threw 
slowly back, upon the instant, their ponderous and 
ebony jaws. It was the work of the rushing gust — 
but then without those doors there did stand the lofty 
and enshrouded figure of the lady Madeline of Usher. 
There was blood upon her white robes, and the evidence 
of some bitter struggle upon every portion of her ema- 
ciated frame. For a moment she remained trembling 
and reeling to and fro upon the threshold — then, 
with a low moaning cry, fell heavily inward upon the 
person of her brother, and, in her violent and now 
final death-agonies, bore him to the floor a corpse, and 
a victim to the terrors he had anticipated. 

From that chamber, and from that mansion, I fled 
aghast. The storm was still abroad in all its wrath 
as I found myself crossing the old causeway. Sud- 
denly there shot along the path a wild light, and I 
turned to see whence a gleam so unusual could have 
issued; for the vast house and its shadows were alone 
behind me. The radiance' was that of the full, set- 
ting, and blood-red moon, which now shone vividly 
through that once barely-discernible fissure, of which 
I have before spoken as extending from the roof of 
the building, in a zig-zag direction, to the base. While 



THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 



49 



I gazed, this fissure rapidly widened — there came a 
fierce breath of the whirlwind — the entire orb of the 
satellite burst at once upon my sight — my brain reeled 
as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder — there was 
a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a 
thousand waters — and the deep and dank tarn at my 
feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of 
the ''House of Usher." 



I 



THE DOOM OF OCCONESTOGA^ 

BY WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 

"The pain of death is nothing. To the chief, 
The forest warrior, it is good to die — 
To die as he has lived, battling and lioarse, 
Shouting a song of triumph. But to live 
Under such doom as tliis were far beyond 
Even his stoic, cold philosophy." 

It was a gloomy amphitheatre in the deep forests 
to which the assembled multitude bore the unfortu- 
nate Occonestoga. The whole scene was unique in 
that solemn grandeur, that sombre hue, that deep 
spiritual repose, in which the human imagination de- 
lights to invest the region which has been rendered 
remarkable for the deed of punishment or crime. 
A small swamp or morass hung upon one side of the 
wood, from the rank bosom of which, in numberless 
millions, the flickering fire-fly perpetually darted 

^ The historical background of this romance is the period of 
1715, when the Yemassee Indians, joining with the Spaniards, 
rose against their former alhes, the Enghsh of South Carohna. 

There are three Indian characters drawn with great power, 
Sanutee, one of the older chiefs, realizing that his own people 
are becoming corrupted by the English and feeling that a sort of 
sad fate awaits his nation, goes from the Indian capital one 
evening to inspect the English block-house, which is the for- 
tress of the whites. His journey through the forest and his 
reflections serve as an admirable introduction to the story. His 
son, Occonestoga, is in thorough sympathy with the English, 
who have taught him the use of whiskey; in his father's eye 

From The Yemassee. 
50 



THE DOOM OF OCCONESTOGA 51 

upwards, giving a brilliance and animation to the 
spot, which, at that moment, no assemblage of life 
or light could possibly enliven. The ancient oak, 
a bearded Druid, ^ was there to contribute to the due 
solemnity of all occasions — the green but gloomy 
cedar, the ghostly cypress, and here and there the 
overgrown pine, — all rose up in their primitive strength, 
and with an undergrowth around them of shrub and 
flower, that scarcely, at any time, in that sheltered 
and congenial habitation, had found it necessary to 
shrink from winter. In the centre of the area thus in- 
vested, rose a high and venerable mound, the tumulus 
of many preceding ages, from the washed sides of which 
might now and then be seen protruding the bleached 
bones of some ancient warrior or sage. A circle of 
trees, at a little distance, hedged it in, — made secure and 
sacred by the performance there of many of their 
religious rites and offices, — themselves, as they bore 
the broad arrow of the Yemassee, being free from all 
danger of overthrow or desecration by Indian hands. 
Amid the confused cries of the multitude, they 
bore the captive to the foot of the tumulus, and bound 

he is an illustration of what may happen to the entire nation. 
Matiwan, the wife of Sanutee, is one of the best Indians ever 
drawn in fiction. She plays a difficult role, drawn one way 
by the love of her husband and another by the love for her son. 
The climax of her dramatic situation is reached in the thrilling 
chapter which is reproduced here, when she kills her son in order 
that he may not receive the curse of his tribe. In addition to 
these three characters, Simms has given vivid descriptions of 
the Indian council, the war-dance, the wild chant of battle, and 
the resourcefulness of the Indians in finding their way through 
the seemingly impenetrable forests. The conclusion of the story 
is an account of their attack upon the block-house and their 
final defeat by the English. 

^ Druids, an order of priests among the ancient Gauls and 
Britons whose sacred rites were performed in oak forests. 



52 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

him backward, half-reclining, upon a tree. An hun- 
dred warriors stood around, armed according to the 
manner of the nation, each with a tomahawk and 
knife and bow. They stood up as for battle, but 
spectators, simply, and took no part in a proceeding 
which belonged entirely to the priesthood. In a 
wider and denser circle, gathered hundreds more — 
not the warriors, but the people — the old, the young, 
the women, and the children, all fiercely excited and 
anxious to see a ceremony, so awfully exciting to an 
Indian imagination; involving, as it did, not only the 
perpetual loss of human caste and national consider- 
ation, but the eternal doom, the degradation, the 
denial of and the exile from, their simple forest heaven. 
Interspersed with this latter crowd, seemingly at regu- 
lar intervals, and with an allotted labor assigned them, 
came a number of old women, not unmeet repre- 
sentatives, individually, for either of the weird sisters of 
the Scottish Thane,^ 

"So withered and so wild in their attire — " 

and, regarding their cries and actions, of whom we 
may safely affirm, that they looked like anything but 
inhabitants of earth! In their hands they bore, each 
of them, a flaming torch of the rich and gummy pine; 
and these they waved over the heads of the multitude 
in a thousand various evolutions, accompanying each 
movement with a fearful cry, which, at regular periods, 
was chorused by the assembled mass. A bugle, a 
native instrument of sound, five feet or more in length, 
hollowed out from the commonest timber — the cracks 
and breaks of which were carefully sealed up with the 
resinous gum oozing from their burning torches, and 

^ See Macbeth, Act I, Scene iii, line 40. 



THE DOOM OF OCCONESTOGA 53 

which, to this day, borrowed from the natives, our 
Negroes employ on the Southern waters with a pecuHar 
compass and variety of note — was carried by one of the 
party, and gave forth at intervals, timed with much 
regularity, a long, protracted, single blast, adding 
greatly to the wild and picturesque character of the 
spectacle. At the articulation of these sounds, the 
circle continued to contract, though slowly; until, at 
length, but a brief space lay between the armed war- 
riors, the crowd, and the unhappy victim. 

The night grew dark of a sudden, and the sky was 
obscured by one of the brief tempests that usually 
usher in the summer, and mark the transition, in the 
South, of one season to another. A wild gust rushed 
along the wood. The leaves were whirled over the 
heads of the assemblage, and the trees bent down- 
ward, until they cracked and groaned again beneath 
the wind. A feeling of natural superstition crossed 
the minds of the multitude, as the hurricane, though 
common enough in that region, passed hurriedly 
along; and a spontaneous and universal voice of 
chaunted prayer rose from the multitude, in their 
own wild and emphatic language, to the evil deity 
whose presence they beheld in its progress: 

"Thy wing, Opitchi-Manneyto, 
It o'erthrows the tall trees — 
Thy breath, Opitchi-Manneyto, 
Makes the waters tremble — 
Thou art in the hurricane, 
When the wig-wam tumbles — 
Thou art in the arrow-fire, 
When the pine is shiver'd — 
But upon the Yemassee, 
Be thy coming gentle — 



54 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Are they not thy well-beloved ? 
Bring they not a slave to thee? 
Look! the slave is bound for thee, 
'Tis the Yemassee that brings him. 
Pass, Opitchi-Manneyto — 
Pass, black spirit, pass from us — 
Be thy passage gentle." 

And, as the uncouth strain rose at the conclusion 
into a diapason^ of unanimous and contending voices, 
of old and young, male and female, the brief summer 
tempest had gone by. A shout of self-gratulation, 
joined with warm acknowledgments, testified the 
popular sense and confidence in that especial Provi- 
dence, which even the most barbarous nations claim 
as forever working in their behalf. 

At this moment, surrounded by the chiefs, and pre- 
ceded by the great prophet or high-priest, Enoree- 
Mattee, came Sanutee, the well-beloved of the Ye- 
massee, to preside over the destinies of his son. There 
was a due and becoming solemnity, but nothing of 
the peculiar feelings of the father visible in his coun- 
tenance. BlocKs of wood were placed around as 
seats for the chiefs, but Sanutee and the prophet threw 
themselves, with more imposing veneration in the 
proceeding, upon the edge of the tumulus, just where 
an overcharged spot, bulging out with the crowding 
bones of its inmates, had formed an elevation an- 
swering the purpose of couch or seat. They sat, di- 
rectly looking upon the prisoner, who reclined, bound 
securely upon his back to a decapitated tree, at a little 
distance before them. A signal having been given, 
the women ceased their clamors, and approaching 
him, they waved their torches so closely above his 

^ A swellinsr chorus. 



THE DOOM OF OCCONESTOGA 55 

head as to make all his features distinctly visible to 
the now watchful and silent multitude. He bore 
the examination with stern, unmoved features, which 
the sculptor in brass or marble might have been glad 
to transfer to his statue in the block. While the torches 
waved, one of the women now cried aloud, in a bar- 
barous chant, above him: 

"Is not this a Yemassee? 
Wherefore is he bound thus — 
Wherefore, with the broad arrow 
On his right arm glowing, 
Wherefore is he bound thus — 
Is not this a Yemassee?" 

A second woman now approached him, waving her 
torch in like manner, seeming closely to inspect his 
features, and actually passing her fingers over the 
emblem upon his shoulder, as if to ascertain more 
certainly the truth of the image. Having done this, 
she turned about to the crowd, and in the same bar- 
barous sort of strain with the preceding, replied as 
follows : 

*It is not the Yemassee, 
But a dog that runs away. 
From his right arm take the arrow, 
He is not the Yemassee." 

As these words were uttered, the crowd of women 
and children around cried out for the execution of 
the judgment thus given, and once again flamed the 
torches wildly, and the shoutings were general among 
the multitude. When they had subsided, a huge In- 
dian came forward, and sternly confronted the prisoner. 
This man was Malatchie, the executioner; and he 



56 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

looked the horrid trade which he professed. His 
garments were stained and smeared with blood and 
covered with scalps, which, connected together by 
slight strings, formed a loose robe over his shoulders. 
In one hand he carried a torch, in the other a knife. 
He came forward, under the instructions of Enoree- 
Mattee, the prophet, to claim the slave of Opitchi- 
Manneyto, — that is, in our language, the slave of hell. 
This he did in the following strain* 

" 'Tis Opitchi-Maimeyto 
In Malatchie's ear that cries, 
This is not the Yemassee — 
And the woman's word is true — 
He's a dog that should be mine, 
I have hunted for him long, 
From his master he had run, 
With the stranger made his home. 
Now I have him, he is mine — 
Now I have him, he is mine — 
Hear Opitchi-Manneyto." 

And, as the besmeared and malignant executioner 
howled his fierce demand in the very ears of his victim, 
he hurled the knife which he carried, upward with 
such dexterity into the air, that it rested, point do^m- 
ward, and sticking fast on its descent into the tree 
and just above the head of the doomed Occonestoga. 
With his hand, the next instant, he laid a resolute grip 
upon the shoulder of the victim, as if to confirm and 
strengthen his claim by actual possession; while, at the 
same time, with a sort of malignant pleasure, he thrust 
his besmeared and distorted visage close into the face 
of his prisoner. Writhing against his ligaments which 
bound him fast, Occonestoga strove to turn his head 
aside from the disgusting and obtrusive presence; 



THE DOOM OF OCCONESTOGA 57 

and the desperation of his effort, but that he had been 
too carefully secured, might have resulted in the release 
of some of his limbs; for the breast heaved and la- 
bored, and every muscle of his arms and legs was 
wrought, by his severe action, into so many ropes, 
hard, full, and indicative of prodigious strength. 

There was one person in that crowd who sympa- 
thized with the victim. This was Hiwassee, the 
maiden in whose ears he had uttered a word, which, 
in her thoughtless scream and subsequent declara- 
tion of the event, when she had identified him, had 
been the occasion of his captivity. Something of 
self-reproach for her share in his misfortune, and an 
old feeling of regard for Occonestoga, who had once 
been a favorite with the young of both sexes among 
his people, was at work in her bosom; and, turning 
to Echotee, her newly-accepted lover, as soon as the 
demand of Malatchie had been heard, she prayed him 
to resist the demand. In such cases, all that a war- 
rior had to do was simply to join issue upon the claim, 
and the popular will then determines the question. 
Echotee could not resist an application so put to him, 
and by one who had just listened to a prayer of his own, 
so all-important to his own happiness; and being him- 
self a noble youth, one who had been a rival of the cap- 
tive in his better days, a feeling of generosity combined 
with the request of Hiwassee, and he boldly leaped 
forward. Seizing the knife of Malatchie, which stuck 
in the tree, he drew it forth and threw it upon the ground, 
thus removing the sign of property which the execu- 
tioner had put up in behalf of the evil deity. 

''Occonestoga is the brave of the Yemassee," ex- 
claimed the young Echotee, while the eyes of the cap- 
tive looked what his lips could not have said. ''Oc- 



58 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

conestoga is a brave of Yemassee — he is no dog of 
Malatchie. Wherefore is the cord upon the Hmbs of 
a free warrior? Is not Occonestoga a free warrior 
of Yemassee? The eyes of Echotee have looked 
upon a warrior hke Occonestoga when he took many 
scalps. Did not Occonestoga lead the Yemassee 
against the Savannahs? The eyes of Echotee saw 
him slay the red-eyed Suwanee, the great chief of 
the Savannahs. Did not Occonestoga go on the 
war-path with our young braves against the Edis- 
toes, the brown foxes that came out of the swamp? 
The eyes of Echotee beheld him. Occonestoga is a 
brave, and a hunter of Yemassee — he is not the dog 
of Malatchie. He knows not fear. He hath an 
arrow with wings, and the panther he runs down in 
the chase. His tread is the tread of a sly serpent 
that comes, so that he hears him not, upon the track 
of the red deer fleeing down the valley. Echotee 
knows the warrior — Echotee knows the hunter — he 
knows Occonestoga, but he knows no dog of Opitchi- 
Manneyto." 

''He hath drunT^ of the poison drink of the pale- 
faces — his feet are gone from the good path of the 
Yemassee — he would sell his people to the English 
for a painted bird. He is the slave of Opitchi-Man- 
neyto," cried Malatchie in reply. Echotee was not 
satisfied to yield the point so soon, and he responded 
accordingly. 

"It is true. The feet of the young warrior have 
gone away from the good paths of the Yemassee, but 
I see not the weakness of the chief, when my eye 
looks back upon the great deeds of the warrior. I 
see nothing but the shrinking body of Suwanee un- 
der the knee, under the knife of the Yemassee. I 



THE DOOM OF OCCONESTOGA 59 

hear nothing but the war-whoop of the Yemassee, 
when we broke through the camp of the brown foxes, 
and scalped them where they skulked in the swamp. 
I see this Yemassee strike the foe and take the scalp, 
and I know Occonestoga — Occonestoga, the son of 
the well-beloved — the great chief of the Yemassee." 

"It is good — Occonestoga has thanks for Echotee 
— Echotee is a brave warrior!" murmured the cap- 
tive to his champion, in tones of melancholy acknowl- 
edgment. The current of public feeling began to set 
somewhat in behalf of the victim, and an occasional 
whisper to that effect might be heard here and there 
among the multitude. Even Malatchie himself looked 
for a moment as if he thought it not improbable that 
he might be defrauded of his prey; and, while a free 
shout from many attested the compliment which all 
were willing to pay to Echotee for his magnanimous 
defence of one who had once been a rival — and not 
always successful — in the general estimation, the exe- 
cutioner turned to the prophet and to Sanutee, as if 
doubtful whether or not to proceed farther in his claim. 
But all doubt was soon quieted, as the stern father rose 
before the assembly. Every sound was stilled in 
expectation of his words on this so momentous an 
occasion to himself. They waited not long. The old 
man had tasked all the energies of the patriot, not less 
than of the stoic, and having once determined upon 
the necessity of the sacrifice, he had no hesitating fears 
or scruples palsying his determination. He seemed 
not to regard the imploring glances of his son, seen and 
felt by all besides in the assembly; but, with a voice 
entirely unaffected by the circumstances of his position, 
he spoke forth the doom of the victim in confirmation 
with that originally expressed. , 



60 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

''Echotee has spoken like a brave warrior with a 
tongue of truth, and a soul that has birth with the 
sun. But he speaks out of his own heart — and does 
not speak to the heart of the traitor. The Yemassee 
will all say for Echotee, but who can say for Occo- 
nestoga when Sanutee himself is silent? Does the 
Yemassee speak with a double tongue? Did not the 
Yemassee promise Occonestoga to Opitchi-Manneyto 
with the other chiefs? Where are they? They are 
gone into the swamp, where the sun shines not, and 
the eyes of Opitchi-Manneyto are upon them. He 
knows them for his slaves. The arrow is gone from 
their shoulders, and the Yemassee knows them no 
longer. Shall the dog escape, who led the way to 
the English — who brought the poison drink to the 
chiefs, who made them dogs to the English and slaves 
to Opitchi-Manneyto? Shall he escape the doom 
the Yemassee hath put upon them? Sanutee speaks 
the voice of the Manneyto. Occonestoga is a dog 
who would sell his father — who would make our 
women to carry water for the palefaces. He is not 
the son of Sanutee — Sanutee knows him no more. 
Look, — Yemassee — the well-beloved has spoken!'' 

He paused, and turning away, sank down silently 
upon the little bank on which he had before rested; 
while Malatchie, without further opposition — for the 
renunciation of his own son by one so highly esteemed 
as Sanutee, was conclusive against the youth — ad- 
vanced to execute the terrible judgment upon his 
victim. 

"Oh, father, chief, Sanutee, the well-beloved," — 
was the cry that now, for the first time, burst con- 
vulsively from the lips of the prisoner — ''hear me, 
father — Occonestoga will go on the war-path with 



THE DOOM OF OCCONESTOGA 61 

thee, and with the Yemassee — against the Edisto, 
against the Spaniard — hear, Sanutee — he will go 
with thee against the English." But the old man 
bent not — yielded not, and the crowd gathered nigher 
in the intensity of their interest. *'Wilt thou have 
no ear, Sanutee? — it is Occonestoga — it is the son of 
Matiwan that speaks to thee." Sanutee's head sank 
as the reference was made to Matiwan, but he showed 
no other sign of emotion. He moved not — he spoke 
not — and bitterly and hopelessly the youth exclaimed 
— "Oh! thou art colder than the stone house of the 
adder — and deafer than his ears. Father, Sanutee, 
wherefore wilt thou lose me, even as the tree its leaf, 
when the storm smites it in summer? Save me, my 
father." And his head sank in despair as he beheld 
the unchanging look of stern resolve with which the 
unbending sire regarded him. 

For a moment he was unmanned; until a loud 
shout of derision from the crowd, as they beheld the 
show of his weakness, came to the support of his pride. 
The Indian shrinks from humiliation where he would 
not shrink from death; and, as the shout reached his 
ears, he shouted back his defiance, raised his head 
loftily in air, and with the most perfect composure, 
commenced singing his song of death, the song of many 
victories. 

"Wherefore sings he his death-song?" was the cry 
from many voices, — "he is not to die!" 

"Thou art the slave of Opitchi-Manneyto," cried 
Malatchie to the captive — "thou shalt sing no lie of 
thy victories in the ear of Yemassee. The slave of 
Opitchi-Manneyto has no triumph" — and the words 
of the song were effectually drowned, if not silenced, 
in the tremendous clamor which they raised about 



62 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

him. It was then that Malatchie claimed his victim 
— the doom had been already given, but the cere- 
mony of expatriation and outlawry was yet to follow, 
and under the direction of the prophet the various 
castes and classes of the nation prepared to take a 
final leave of one who could no longer be known among 
them. First of all came a band of young marriageable 
women, who, wheeling in a circle three times about 
him, sang together a wild apostrophe containing a bit- 
ter farewell, which nothing in our language could per- 
fectly embody. 

"Go, — thou hast no wife in Yemassee — thou hast 
given no lodge to the daughter of the Yemassee — 
thou hast slain no meat for thy children. Thou hast 
no name — the women of Yemassee know thee no 
more. They know thee no more." 

And the final sentence was reverberated from the 
entire assembly — ''They know thee no more — they 
know thee no more." 

Then came a number of the ancient men — the pa- 
triarchs of the nation, who surrounded him in cir- 
cular mazes three several times, singing as they did 
so a hymn of like import. 

"Go — thou sittest not in the council of Yemassee 
— thou shalt not speak wisdom to the boy that comes. 
Thou hast no name in Yemassee — the fathers of Ye- 
massee, they know thee no more." 

And again the whole assembly cried out, as with 
one voice — "They know thee no more, they know 
thee no more." 

These were followed by the young warriors, his 
old associates, who now, in a solemn band, approached 
him to go through a like performance. His eyes were 
shut as they came — his blood was chilled in his heart. 



THE DOOM OF OCCONESTOGA 63 

and the articulated farewell of their wild chant failed 
seemingly to reach his ear. Nothing but the last sen- 
tence he heard — 

"Thou that wast a brother, 
Thou art nothing now — 
The young warriors of Yemassee, 
They know thee no more." 

And the crowd cried with them — ''they know thee 
no more.'' 

"Is no hatchet sharp for Occonestoga ? " — moaned 
forth the suffering savage. But his trials were only 
then begun. Enoree-Mattee now approached him 
with the words with which, as the representative of 
the good Manneyto, he renounced him — with which 
he denied him access to the Indian heaven, and left 
him a slave and an outcast, a miserable wanderer, 
amid the shadows and the swamps, and liable to all 
the dooms and terrors which come with the service 
of Opitchi-Manneyto. 

"Thou wast the child of Manneyto," 

sung the high priest in a solemn chant, and with a 
deep-toned voice that thrilled strangely amid the si- 
lence of the scene. 

"Thou wast the child of Manneyto, 
He gave thee arrows and an eye, — 
Thou wast the strong son of Manneyto, 
He gave thee feathers and a wing — 
Thou wast a young brave of Manneyto, 
He gave thee scalps and a war-song — 
But he knows thee no more — he knows thee no more." 



64 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

And the clustering multitude again gave back the 
last line in wild chorus. The prophet continued his 
chant: 

"That Opitchi-Manneyto!— 
He commands thee for his slave — 
And the Yemassee must hear him, 
Hear, and give thee for his slave — 
They will take from thee the arrow, 
The broad arrow of thy people — 
Thou shalt see no blessed valley, 
Where the plum-groves always bloom — 
Thou shalt hear no song of valor, 
From the ancient Yemassee — 
Father, mother, name, and people, 
Thou shalt lose with that broad arrow, 
Thou art lost to the Manneyto — 
He knows thee no more — he knows thee no more." 

The despair of hell was in the face of the victim, 
and he howled forth, in a cry of agony, that, for a 
moment, silenced the wild chorus of the crowd around, 
the terrible consciousness in his mind of that privation 
which the doom entailed upon him. Every feature 
was convulsed with emotion ; and the terrors of Opitchi- 
Manneyto's dominion seemed already in strong exer- 
cise upon the muscles of his heart, when Sanutee, the 
father, silently approached him, and with a pause of 
a few moments, stood gazing upon the son from whom 
he was to be separated eternally — whom not even the 
uniting, the restoring hand of death could possibly re- 
store to him. And he — his once noble son — the pride 
of his heart, the gleam of his hope, the triumphant 
warrior, who was even to increase his own glory, and 
transmit the endearing title of well-beloved, which the 



THE DOOM OF OCCONESTOGA 65 

Yemassee had given him, to a succeeding generation, — 
he was to be lost forever! These promises were all 
blasted, and the father was now present to yield him up 
eternally — to deny him — to forfeit him, in fearful 
penalty to the nation whose genius he had wronged, 
and whose rights he had violated. The old man stood 
for a moment, rather, we may suppose, for the recovery 
of his resolution, than with any desire for the contem- 
plation of the pitiable form before him. The pride 
of the youth came back to him, — the pride of the 
strong mind in its desolation, — as his eye caught the 
inflexible gaze of his unswerving father; and he ex- 
claimed bitterly and loud: 

"Wherefore art thou come — thou hast been my 
foe, not my father — away — I would not behold thee!" 
and he closed his eyes after the speech, as if to relieve 
himself from a disgusting presence. 

''Thou hast said well, Occonestoga, — Sanutee is 
thy foe — he is not thy father. To say this in thy 
ears has he come. Look on him, Occonestoga, — look 
up and hear thy doom. The young and the old of 
the Yemassee — the warrior and the chief, — they have 
all denied thee — all given thee up to Opitchi-Man- 
neyto! Occonestoga is no name for the Yemassee. 
The Yemassee gives it to his dog. The prophet of 
Manneyto has forgotten thee — thou art unknown to 
those who were thy people. And I, thy father — 
with this speech, I yield thee to Opitchi-Manneyto! 
Sanutee is no longer thy father — thy father knows 
thee no more" — and once more came to the ears of 
the victim that melancholy chorus of the multitude — 
''He knows thee no more — he knows thee no more." 
Sanutee turned quickly away as he had spoken; and, 
as if he had suffered more than he was willing to 



66 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

show, the old man rapidly hastened to the little mound 
where he had been previously sitting, his eyes averted 
from the further spectacle. Occonestoga, goaded to 
madness by these several incidents, shrieked forth the 
bitterest execrations, until Enoree-Mattee, preceding 
Malatchie, again approached. Having given some 
directions in an undertone to the latter, he retired, 
leaving the executioner alone with his victim. Malat- 
chie, then, while all was silence in the crowd — a thick 
silence, in which even respiration seemed to be sus- 
pended, — proceeded to his duty; and, lifting the feet 
of Occonestoga carefully from the ground, he placed 
a log under them — then — addressing him, as he again 
bared his knife which he stuck in the tree above his 
head, he sung — 

"I take from thee the earth of Yemassee — 
I take from thee the water of Yemassee — 
I take from thee the arrow of Yemassee — 
Thou art no longer a Yemassee — 
The Yemassee knows thee no more." 

"The Yemassee knows thee no more," cried the 
multitude, and their universal shout was deafening 
upon the ear. Occonestoga said no word now — he 
could offer no resistance to the unnerving hands of 
Malatchie, — who now bared the arm more completely 
of its covering. But his limbs were convulsed with 
the spasms of that dreadful terror of the future which 
was racking and raging in every pulse of his heart. 
He had full faith in the superstitions of his people. 
His terrors acknowledged the full horrors of their doom. 
A despairing agony which no language could describe, 
had possession of his soul. Meanwhile, the silence of all 
indicated the general anxiety; and Malatchie prepared 



THE DOOM OF OCCOxNESTOGA 67 

to seize the knife and perform the operation, when a 
confused murmur arose from the crowd around; the 
mass gave way and parted, and, rushing wildly into 
the area, came Matiwan, his mother — the long black 
hair streaming — the features, an astonishing likeness 
to his own, convulsed like his; and her action that of 
one reckless of all things in the way of the forward 
progress she was making to the person of her child. 
She cried aloud as she came — with a voice that rang 
like a sudden death-bell through the ring — 

*' Would you keep the mother from her boy, and 
he to be lost to her forever! Shall she have no part- 
ing with the young brave she bore in her bosom? 
Away, keep me not back — I wilHook upon, I will love 
him. He shall have the blessing of Matiwan, though 
the Yemassee and the Manneyto curse." 

The victim heard, and a momentary renovation of 
mental life, perhaps a renovation of hope, spoke out 
in the simple exclamation which fell from his lips — 

"Oh, Matiwan — oh, mother!" 

She rushed toward the spot where she heard his 
appeal, and thrusting the executioner aside, threw 
her arms desperately about his neck. 

"Touch him not, Matiwan," was the general cry 
from the crowd. "Touch him not, Matiwan — Man- 
neyto knows him no more." 

"But Matiwan knows him — the mother knows her 
child, though the Manneyto denies him. Oh, boy — 
oh, boy, boy, boy," and she sobbed like an infant on 
his neck. 

"Thou art come, Matiwan — thou art come, but 
wherefore? — to curse like the father — to curse like 
the Manneyto?" mournfully said the captive. 

"No, no, no! Not to curse — not to curse. When 



68 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

did mother curse the child she bore? Not to curse, 
but to bless thee. To bless thee and forgive." 

''Tear her away," cried the prophet; "let Opitchi- 
Manneyto have his slave." 

''Tear her away, Malatchie," cried the crowd, 
now impatient for the execution. Malatchie ap- 
proached. 

''Not yet — not yet," appealed the woman. "Shall 
not the mother say farewell to the child she will see 
no more?" and she waved Malatchie back, and in the 
next instant drew hastily from the drapery of her 
dress a small hatchet, which she had there carefully 
concealed. 

"What wouldst thou do, Matiwan?" asked Occo- 
nestoga, as his eye caught the glare of the weapon. 

"Save thee, my boy — save thee for thy mother, 
Occonestoga — save thee for the happy valley." 

"Wouldst thou slay me, mother — wouldst strike the 
heart of thy son?" he asked with a something of re- 
luctance to receive death from the hands of a parent. 

"I strike thee but to save thee, my son: — since 
they cannot take the totem from thee after the life 
is gone. Turn away from me thy head — let me not 
look upon thine eyes as I strike, lest my hands grow 
weak and tremble. Turn thine eyes away — I will not 
lose thee." 

His eyes closed, and the fatal instrument, lifted 
above her head, was now visible in the sight of all. 
The executioner rushed forward to interpose, but he 
came too late. The tomahawk was driven deep into 
the skull, and but a single sentence from his lips 
preceded the final insensibility of the victim. 

"It is good, Matiwan, it is good — thou hast saved 
me — the death is in my heart." And back he sank 



THE DOOM OF OCCONESTOGA . 69 

as he spoke, while a shriek of mingled joy and horror 
from the lips of the mother announced the success 
of her effort to defeat the doom, the most dreadful 
in the imagination of the Yemassee. 

"He is not lost — he is not lost. They may not take 
the child from his mother. They may not keep him 
from the valley of Manneyto. He is free — he is 
free." And she fell back in a deep swoon in the arms 
of Sanutee, who by this time had approached. She 
had defrauded Opitchi-Manneyto of his victim, for 
they may not remove the badge of the nation from 
any but the living victim. 



THE FIRST PLAY ACTED IN AMERICA 

BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE 

In the autumn of 1752 the *' Virginia Company of 
Comedians" played, at the theatre near the Capitol in 
Williamsburg, The Merchant of Venice, the first dramatic 
representation in America. 

It was the period of the culmination of the old social 
regime} A splendid society had burst into flower, and 
was enjoying itself in the sunshine and under the blue 
skies of the most beautiful of lands. The chill winds 
of the Revolution were about to blow, but no one sus- 
pected it. Life was easy, and full of laughter — of 
cordial greetings, grand assemblies, and the zest of 
existence which springs from the absence of care. 
Social intercourse was the joy of the epoch, and crowds 
flocked to the race-course, where the good horses were 
running for the cup, or to the cock-fight, where the 
favorite spangles fought to death. The violins seemed 
to be ever playing — at the Raleigh Tavern, in Williams- 
burg, where the young Jefferson "danced with Be- 
linda in the Apollo,^ " and was happy; or in the great 
manor-houses of the planters clustering along the Low- 
land rivers. In town and country life was a pageant. 
His Excellency, the Royal Governor, went in his coach- 

^ Prevailing system. 

2 The ballroom in the Raleigh Tavern was called the "Apollo," 
after the Greek god of music. 

From The Virginia Comedians. By permission of D. Applet on and 
Company, 

70 



THE FIRST PLAY ACTED IN AMERICA 71 

and-six to open the Burgesses. The youths in em- 
broidered waistcoats made love to the little beauties 
in curls and roses. The "Apollo" rang to music, 
the theatre on Gloucester Street with thunders of ap- 
plause; and the houses of the planters were as full of 
rejoicing. At Christmas — at every season, indeed — 
the hospitable old ''nabob" ^ entertained throngs of 
guests; and, if we choose to go back in fancy, we may 
see those Virginians of the old age amid their most 
characteristic surroundings. The broad board is 
spread with plenty; the wood-fires roar in the wide 
fireplaces; the canary ^ sparkles; the wax-lights flame, 
lighting up the Louis Quatorze chairs, the old portraits, 
the curious hric-a-brac, and the rich dresses of fair dames 
and gallant men. Care stands out of the sunshine of 
this brilliant throng, who roll in their chariots, dance 
the minuet, exchange compliments, and snatch the 
charm of the flying hours with no thought, one would 
say, but enjoyment, and to make the best of the little 
life we live below. 

This is what may be seen on the surface of society 
under the old Virginia regime; but that social organi- 
zation had reached a stage when the elements of dis- 
integration had already begun their work. A vague 
unrest pervaded the atmosphere, and gave warning of 
the approaching cataclysm.^ Class distinctions had 
been immemorially looked upon as a part of the order of 
nature; but certain curious and restive minds began to 
ask if that was just, and to glance sidewise at the 
wealthy nabob in his fine coach. The English church 
was the church of the gentry; it was not the church of 

^ A man of great wealth; a prince of the East. 

^ Wine from the Canary Islands. 

^ Catastrophe — in this case, the Revolutionary War. 



72 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

the people. The ''New Light" ministers began to 
talk about the ''sinegogues of Satan," and to tell the 
multitudes, who thronged to hear them preach in the 
fields, that the reverend parsons were no better than 
they should be. New ideas were on the march. The 
spirit of change was under the calm surface. The 
political agitation soon to burst forth was preceded by 
the social. The hour was near when the merry violins 
were to stop playing; when the "Apollo room" at the 
Raleigh would become the meeting-place of political 
conspirators; and the Virginians, waking from their 
dreams of enjoyment, were to be confronted by the hard 
realities of the new time. 

Such was the period selected by the youthful writer of 
this volume for the picture he wished to attempt of 
that former society. When the story opens, the worthy 
"Virginia Comedians" have prospered. They have 
gone away, but have returned year after year, and are 
still playing at what is now the "Old Theatre near the 
Capitol." The winter still attracts the pleasure-loving 
Virginians to the vice-regal ^ city, and throughout the 
theatrical season, beginning in the autumn, the play- 
house is thronged with powdered planters, beautiful 
dames, honest yeomen,^ and indented ^ servants. More 
than ever the spirit of unrest — social, political, and re- 
ligious — pervades all these classes. Revolution is 
already in the air, and the radical sentiments of young 
Waters and the Man in the Red Cloak, in this volume, 
meet with thousands of sympathizers. On the surface 
the era is tranquil, but beneath is the volcano. Passion 

^ Displaying the trappings of royalty. 
^ Men of the poorer classes. 

^ Bound out; apprenticed by an agreement. In Virginia 
indented servants were always white persons. 



THE FIRST PLAY ACTED IN AIVIERICA 73 

smoulders under the laughter; the home-spun coat 
jostles the embroidered costume; men are demanding 
social equality, as they will soon demand a republic; 
and the splendid old regime is about to vanish in the 
storms of the Revolution. 

The "Old Theatre near the Capitol," discoursed of 
in the manifesto issued by Mr. Manager Hallam, was 
so far old, that the walls were well browned by time, 
and the shutters to the windows of a pleasant neutral 
tint between rust and dust color. The building had 
no doubt been used for the present purpose in bygone 
times, before the days of the Virginia Gazette, which 
is our authority for many of the facts here stated, and 
in relation to the "Virginia Company of Comedians" — 
but of the former companies of "players," as my lord 
Hamlet calls them, and their successes or misfortunes, 
printed words tell us nothing, as far as the researches of 
the present chronicle extend. That there had been 
such companies before, however, we repeat, there is 
some reason to believe; else w^hy that addition "old" 
applied to " the Theatre near the Capitol " ? The 
question is submitted to the future social historians of 
the Old Dominion. 

Within, the play-house presented a somewhat more 
attractive appearance. There were "box," "pit," and 
"gallery," as in our own day; and the relative prices 
were arranged in much the same manner. The com- 
mon mortals — gentlemen and ladies — were forced to 
occupy the boxes raised slightly above the level of the 
stage, and hemmed in by velvet-cushioned railings, — 
in front, a flower-decorated panel, extending all around 
the house, — and for this position were moreover com- 
pelled to a pay an admission fee of seven shillings and 



74 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

sixpence. The demigods, so to speak, occupied a 
more eligible position in the ''pit," from which they 
could procure a highly excellent view of the actors' feet 
and ankles, just on a level with their noses: to conciliate 
the demigods, this superior advantage had been offered, 
and the price for them was, further still, reduced to 
five shillings. But *'the gods" in truth were the real 
favorites of the manager. To attract them, he arranged 
the high upper ''gallery" — and left it untouched, unin- 
cumbered by railing or velvet cushions, or any other 
device: all was free space, and liberal as air: there were 
no troublesome seats for ''the gods," and three shillings 
and ninepence was all that the managers would de- 
mand. The honor of their presence was enough. 

From the boxes a stairway led down to the stage, and 
some rude scenes, visible at the edges of the green cur- 
tain, completed the outline. 

When INIr. Lee and his daughters entered the box 
which had been reserved for them, next to the stage, 
the house was nearly full, and the neatness of the edifice 
was lost sight of in the sea of brilliant ladies' faces, and 
strong forms of cavaliers, which extended like a line 
of glistening foam around the semi-circle of the boxes. 
The pit was occupied by well-dressed men of the lower 
class, as the times had it, and from the gallery proceeded 
hoarse murmurs and the unforgotten slang of London. 

Many smiles and bows were interchanged between the 
parties in the different boxes; and the young gallants, 
following the fashion of the day, gathered at each end 
of the stage, and often walked across, to exchange some 
polite speech with the smiling dames in the boxes nearest. 

A little bell rang, and the orchestra, represented by 
three or four foreign-looking gentlemen, bearded and 
mustached, entered with trumpet and violin. The 



THE FIRST PLAY ACTED IN AiNIERICA 75 

trumpets made the roof shake, indifferently, in honor 
of the Prince of Morocco,^ or King Richard,^ or any 
other worthy whose entrance was marked in the play- 
book ''with a flourish." But before the orchestra 
ravished the ears of everyone, the manager came forward, 
in the costume of Bassanio,^ and made a low bow. Mr. 
Hallam was a fat little man, of fifty or fifty-five, with 
a rubicund and somewhat sensual face, and he ex- 
pressed extraordinary delight at meeting so many of the 
''noble aristocracy of the great and noble colony of 
Virginia," assembled to witness his very humble repre- 
sentation. It would be the chief end and sole ambition 
of his life, he said, to please the gentry, who so kindly 
patronized their servants — himself and his associates — 
and then the smiling worthy concluded by bowing 
lower than before. Much applause from the pit and 
gallery, and murmurs of approbation from the well- 
bred boxes, greeted his address, and the orchestra 
having struck up, the curtain slowly rolled aloft. The 
young gallants scattered to the corners of the stage, 
seating themselves on stools, or chairs, or standing, and 
The Merchant of Venice commenced. Bassanio, having 
assumed a dignified and lofty port, criticised Gratiano 
with courteous and lordly wit: his friend Antonio 
offered him his fortune with grand magnanimity, in a 
loud singing voice, worthy the utmost commendation, 
and the first act proceeded on its way in triumph. 

The first act ended without the appearance of Portia 
or Nerissa; the scene in which they hold their confi- 
dential — though public and explanatory — interview hav- 
ing been omitted. The audience seemed to be much 
pleased, and the actors received a grateful guerdon 
of applause. 

^ Characters in the plays of Shakespeare. 



76 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

In the box opposite that one occupied by Mr. Lee 
and his daughters, sat the squire, Will and Kate, and 
— ^proh pudor! — no less a personage than Parson Tag. 
Let us not criticise the worthy parson's appearance in 
a play-house, however. Those times were not our times, 
nor those men, the men of to-day. If parsons drank 
deep then, and hunted Reynard, and not unwillingly 
took a hand at cards, — and they did all this and more 
— why should they not also go and see "the good old 
English drama" ? Certain are we, that when the squire 
proposed to the parson a visit to town, for the purpose of 
witnessing the performance of The Merchant of Venice, — 
that worthy made no sort of objection: though it must 
be said, in justice to him, also, that he. expressed some 
fears of finding his time thrown away. He now sat on 
the front seat beside the squire, with solemn gravity, 
and rubicund nose, surveying from his respectable 
position the agitated pit. Besides these. Will and Kate 
were exchanging criticisms on the splendid novelty 
they had just witnessed. They remembered it for 
years afterward — this, their beautiful, glittering, glori- 
ous, magical first play! 

Mr. Effingham [previously described as the most 
elegant fop present] drew forth his bill and saw opposite 
the name of Portia, Miss Beatrice Hallam. He sat 
down in the corner of the stage upon a wicker chair 
and scanned Portia critically. Her costume was fault- 
less. It consisted of a go^m and underskirt of fawn- 
colored silk, trimmed with silver, and a single band of 
gold encircled each \\Tist, clearly relieved against the 
white, finely rounded arm. Her hair, which was a 
beautiful chestnut, had been " carried back from the 
temples and powdered after the fashion of the time, and 

^ For shame. 



THE FIRST PLAY ACTED IN AMERICA 77 

around her beautiful, swan-like neck, the young wo- 
man wore a necklace of pearls of rare brilliance. Thus 
the costume of the character defied criticism, and- Mr. 
Effingham passed on to the face and figure. The 
countenance of Beatrice Hallam wore a simple, yet 
firm and collected expression, and her figure had an 
indefinable grace and beauty. Every movement which 
she made might have suited a royal palace, and in her 
large brilliant eyes Mr. Effingham in vain sought the 
least trace of confusion. She surveyed the audience, 
while the Prince of Morocco was uttering his speech, 
with perfect simplicity, but her eyes not for a single 
moment rested on the young men collected at the 
corners of the stage. For her they seemed to have no 
existence, and she turned to the Prince again. That 
gentleman having uttered his prescribed number of lines, 
Portia graciously advanced toward him, and addressed 
him. Her carelessness was gone; she no longer dis- 
played either indifference or coldness. She was the 
actress with her role to sustain. She commenced in a 
voice of noble and queen-like courtesy, a voice of pure 
music, and clear utterance, so to speak, such as few 
lips possess the power of giving forth. Every word 
rang and told; there was no hurry, no slurring, no hesi- 
tation; it was not an actress delivering a set speech, 
but the noble Portia doing the honors of her beauti- 
ful palace of Belmont. The scene ended with great 
applause — the young woman had evidently produced 
a most favorable impression upon the audience. But 
she seemed wholly unconscious of this compliment, 
and made her exit quite calmly. 

A buzz ran through the theatre: the audience were 
discussing the merits of Portia. On the stage, too, she 
was the subject of many comments ; and this continued 



78 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

until Lancelot made his appearance and went through 
his speech. Then Portias reappearance with the 
Prince was greeted with great applause. 

What was going on in Mr. Effingham's mind, and 
why did he lose some of his careless listlessness when, 
clasping her beautiful hands, the lovely girl, raising 
her eyes to heaven, like one of the old Italian pictures, 
uttered that sublime discourse on the 'Equality of mer- 
cy"? and how did it happen that, when she sobbed, 
almost, in that tender, magical voice: 

"But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings — 
It is an attribute to God himself ! " — 

how did it chance that Mr. Effingham led the enthusias- 
tic applause, and absolutely rose erect in the excess of his 
enthusiasm ? 

As she passed him in going out, he made her a low 
bow, and said, "Pardon me! you are a great actress!" 
A single glance, and a calm movement of the head, 
were the only reply to his speech; and with this Mr. 
Effingham was compelled to remain content. 

The play proceeded, and ended amid universal ap- 
plause. Mr. Hallam led out Portia, in response to up- 
roarious calls, and thanked the audience for their kind- 
ness to his daughter. Beatrice received all the applause 
with her habitual calmness; and inclining her head 
slightly, disappeared. 

And so the audience separated, rolling, well pleased, 
to their homes. 



THE CAPTURE OF FIVE SCOTCHMEN^ 

BY JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 

Galbraith Robinson was a man of altogether 
rougher mould. Nature had carved out, in his person, 
an athlete whom the sculptors might have studied to 
improve the Hercules. Every lineament of his body 
indicated strength. His stature was rather above six 
feet; his chest broad; his limbs sinewy, and remarkable 
for their symmetry. There seemed to be no useless flesh 
upon his frame to soften the prominent surface of his 
muscles; and his ample thigh, as he sat upon horseback, 
showed the working of its texture at each step, as if 
part of the animal on which he rode. His was one of 

^ The circumstances under which Kennedy met the principal 
character of the story are graphically told in his introduction 
to the novel. On a visit to the western section of South Caro- 
lina he spent the night at a place to which Horse-Shoe Robinson, 
then an old man, was summoned to give relief to a boy who 
had met with a serious accident. 

"What a man I saw! With near seventy shears upon his poll, time 
seemed to have broken its billows over his front only as the ocean breaks 
over a rock. There he stood — tall, broad, brawny, and erect. The 
sharp light gilded his massive frame and weathert)eaten face with a 
pictorial effect that would have rejoiced an artist." 

On that night the old gentleman told him the thrilling story 
of his escape from Charleston and of his capture of five Scotch- 
men — incidents that are afterward developed in the novel. 
It was long after midnight before the party broke up; and when 
the novelist got to bed it was to dream of Horse-Shoe and his 

From Horse^Shoe Robinson: A Tale of the Tory Ascendency in South 
Carolina. By permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons. 

79 



80 SOUTHERN PROSE .\XD POETRY 

those iron forms that rnio-ht be imacrined almost bullet- 
proof, ^yith all these advantages of person, there was 
a radiant, broad, good nature upon his face; and the 
glance of a large, clear, blue eye told of arch thoughts, 
and of shrewd, homely wisdom. A ruddy complexion 
accorded well with his sprightly but massive features, 
of which the prevailing expression was such as silently 
invited friendship and trust. If to these traits be added 
an abundant shock of yellow, curly hair, terminating in 
a luxuriant queue, confined by a narrow strand of 
leather cord, my reader will have a tolerably correct idea 
of the person I wish to describe. 

Robinson had been a blacksmith at the breaking out 
of the Revolution, and, in truth, could hardly be said 
to have yet abandoned the craft; although of late, he 
had been engaged in a course of life which had little 
to do with the anvil, except in that metaphorical sense 
of hammering out and shaping the rough, iron inde- 

adventures. This was the beginning of what Kennedy after- 
ward, with the aid of historical research, elaborated in his story. 

The stor^^ opens with Robinson and Captain Butler making 
their way from the country around Charlottesville to join the 
ranks of the partisans. Horse-Shoe relates to his companions 
the storj' of his perilous escape from the Tories in Charleston. 
The mountaineer has come to guide Butler into the mountains 
of western Xorth Carolina. Soon after they reach their desti- 
nation they are both captured, Horse-Shoe escapes from his 
captors and tries in every way to rescue his comrade. With 
the aid of a mountain girl and her lover he accomplishes the 
feat, only, however, to see him captured again. The story then 
centres about the numerous frays between the Tories and 
Whigs in the mountain sections — the hairbreadth escapes, the 
long midnight rides, fierce warfare between members of the same 
family even. Led by Sevier, Campbell, and Shelby at King's 
Mountain, the ^Tiig partisans win a glorious victory". The best 
characterization of the hero of the stor>" is that by the author 
himself, in a passage which may serve as an introduction to the 
story here related. 



THE CAPTURE OF FIVE SCOTCHMEN 81 

pendence of his country. He was the owner of a Httle 
farm in the Waxhaw settlement, on the Catawba, and 
having pitched his habitation upon a promontory, 
around whose base the Waxhaw creek swept with a 
regular but narrow circuit, this locality, taken in con- 
nection with his calling, gave rise to a common prefix 
to his name throughout the neighborhood, and he was 
therefore almost exclusively distinguished by the sobri- 
quet^ of Horse-Shoe Robinson. This familar appella- 
tive had followed him into the army. 

The age of Horse-Shoe was some seven or eight years 
in advance of that of Butler — a circumstance which 
the worthy senior did not fail to use with some authority 
in their personal intercourse, holding himself, on that 
account, to be like Cassius, an elder, if not a better 
soldier. On the present occasion, his dress was of 
the plainest and most rustic description, a spherical 
crowned hat with a broad brim, a coarse gray coat of 
mixed cotton and wool, dark linsey-woolsey trousers ad- 
hering closely to his legs, hobnailed shoes, and a red 
cotton handkerchief tied carelessly round his neck with 
a knot upon his bosom. This costume, and a long rifle 
thrown into the angle of the right arm, with the breech 
resting on his pommel, and a pouch of deer-skin, with 
a powder-horn attached to it, suspended on his right 
side, might have warranted a spectator in taking Robin- 
son for a woodsman, or hunter from the neighboring 
mountains. . . . 

[Mistress Ramsay speaking to Horse-Shoe Robinson] : 

"Who should come in this morning, just after my 
husband had cleverly got away on his horse, but a 
young cock-a- whoop ^ ensign, that belongs to Ninety- 

^ A nickname. ^ Boastful. 



82 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Six, and four great Scotchmen with him, all in red coats; 
they had been out thieving, I warrant, and were now 
going home again. And who but they! Here they 
were, swaggering all about my house — and calling for 
this — and calling for that — as if they owned the fee-sim- 
ple of everything on the plantation. And it made my 
blood rise, Mr. Horse-Shoe, to see them run out into 
the yard, and catch up my chickens and ducks, and 
kill as many as they could string about them — and I 
not daring to say a word; though I did give them a 
piece of my mind too." 

"Who is at home with you?" inquired the sergeant 
eagerly. 

"Nobody but my youngest son, Andrew," answered 
the dame. "And then, the filthy toping rioters — " 
she continued, exalting her voice. 

" What arms have you in the house ?" asked Robinson, 
without heeding the dame's rising anger. 

"We have a rifle, and a horseman's pistol that belongs 
to John. They must call for drink, too, and turn my 
house, of a Sunday morning, into a tavern." 

"They took the route towards Ninety-Six, you said, 
Mistress Ramsay?" 

"Yes, — they went straight forward upon the road. 
But look you, Mr. Horse-Shoe, you're not thinking of 
going after them?" 

"Isn't there an old field, about a mile from this, on 
that road?" inquired the sergeant, still intent upon 
his own thoughts. 

"There is," replied the dame; "with the old school- 
house upon it." 

"A lop-sided, rickety log-cabin in the middle of the 
field. Am I right, good woman ?" 

"Yes." 



THE CAPTURE OF FIVE SCOTCHMEN 83 

"And nobody lives in it ? It has no door to it ?" 

"There ha'n't been anybody in it for these seven 
years." 

"I know the place very well," said the sergeant, very 
thoughtfully; "there is woods just on this side of it." 

"That's true," replied the dame; "but what is it 
you are thinking about, Mr. Robinson?" 

"How long before this rain began was it that they 
quitted this house?" 

"Not above fifteen minutes." 

"Mistress Ramsay, bring me the rifle and pistol both 
— and the powder-horn and bullets." 

"As you say, Mr. Horse-Shoe," answered the dame, 
as she turned round to leave the room; "but I am sure 
I can't suspicion what you mean to do." 

In a few moments the woman returned with the weap- 
ons, and gave them to the sergeant. 

"Where is Andy?" asked Horse-Shoe. 

The hostess went to the door and called her son, 
and, almost immediately afterward, a sturdy boy of 
about twelve or fourteen years of age entered the apart- 
ment, his clothes dripping with rain. He modestly and 
shyly seated himself on a chair near the door, with his 
soaked hat flapping down over a face full of freckles 
and not less rife with the expression of an open, dauntless 
hardihood of character. 

"How would you like a scrummage, Andy, with them 
Scotchmen that stole your mother's chickens this morn- 
ing?" asked Horse-Shoe. 

"I'm agreed," replied the boy, "if you will tell me 
what to do." 

Horse-Shoe now loaded the fire-arms, and having 
slung the pouch across his body, he put the pistol into 
the hands of the boy; then shouldering his rifle, he and 



84 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

his young ally left the room. Even on this occasion, 
serious as it might be deemed, the sergeant did not de- 
part without giving some manifestation of that light- 
heartedness which no difficulties ever seemed to have 
the power to conquer. He thrust his head back into the 
room, after he had crossed the threshold, and said with 
an encouraging laugh, ''Andy and me will teach them. 
Mistress Ramsay, Pat's point of war — we will surround 
the ragamuffins." 

"Now, Andy, my lad," said Horse-Shoe, after he 
had mounted Captain Peter, ''you must get up behind 
me." . . . 

By the time that his instructions were fully impressed 
upon the boy, our adventurous forlorn hope, as it may 
fitly be called, had arrived at the place which Horse- 
Shoe Robinson had designated for the commencement 
of active operations. They had a clear view of the old 
field, and it afforded them a strong assurance that the 
enemy were exactly where they wished him to be, when 
they discovered smoke rising from the chimney of the 
hovel. Ajidrew was soon posted behind a tree, and, 
Robinson only tarried a moment to make the boy repeat 
the signals agreed upon, in order to ascertain that he 
had them correctly in his memory. But satisfied from 
this experiment that the intelligence of his young com- 
panion might be depended upon, he galloped across the 
intervening space, and in a few seconds, abruptly reined 
up his steed in the very doorway of the hut. The party 
within was gathered around a fire at the further end, 
and, in the corner near the door, were four muskets 
thrown together against the wall. To spring from 
his saddle and thrust himself one pace within the door, 
was a movement which the sergeant executed in an 
instant, shouting at the same time — 



THE CAPTURE OF FIVE SCOTCHMEN 85 

"Halt! File off right and left to both sides of the 
house, and wait orders. I demand the surrender of 
all here," he said, as he planted himself between the 
party and their weapons. ''I will shoot down the first 
man who budges a foot." 

''Leap to your arms," cried the young oflBcer who 
commanded the little party inside of the house. "Why 
do you stand?" 

"I don't want to do you or your men any harm, 
young man," said Robinson, as he brought his rifle 
to a level, "but, by my father's son, I will not leave 
one of you to be put upon a muster-roll if you raise a 
hand at this moment." 

Both parties now stood, for a brief space, eyeing each 
other in fearful suspense, during which there was an ex- 
pression of doubt and irresolution visible on the coun- 
tenances of the soldiers, as they surveyed the broad pro- 
portions, and met the stern glance of the sergeant, whilst 
the delay also began to raise an apprehension in the 
mind of Robinson that his stratagem would be dis- 
covered. 

"Shall I let loose upon them. Captain ?" said Andrew 
Ramsay, now appearing most unexpectedly to Robinson, 
at the door of the hut. "Come on, boys!" he shouted, 
as he turned his face toward the field. 

"Keep them outside the door — stand fast!" cried the 
doughty sergeant, with admirable promptitude, in the 
new and sudden posture of affairs caused by this op- 
portune appearance of the boy. "Sir, you see that it's 
not worth fighting five to one; and I should be sorry to 
be the death of any of your brave fellows; so, take my 
advice, and surrender to the Continental Congress and 
this scrap of its army which I command." 

During this appeal the sergeant was ably seconded 



86 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

by the lad outside, who was calHng out, first on one 
name, and then on another, as if in the presence of a 
troop. The device succeeded, and the officer within, 
beheving the forbearance of Robinson to be real, at 
length said: — 

"Lower your rifle, sir. In the presence of a superior 
force, taken by surprise, and without arms, it is my duty 
to save bloodshed. With the promise of fair usage, and 
the rights of prisoners of war, I surrender this little 
foraging party under my command." 

''I'll make the terms agreeable," replied the sergeant. 
"Never doubt me, sir. Right hand file, advance, and 
receive the arms of the prisoners!" 

"I'm here. Captain," said Andrew, in a conceited 
tone, as if it were a mere occasion for merriment; and 
the lad quickly entered the house and secured the 
weapons, retreating with them some paces from the 
door. 

"Now, sir," said Horse-Shoe to the ensign, "your 
sword, and whatever else you mought have about you 
of the ammunitions of war!" 

The officer delivered his sword and a pair of pocket 
pistols. 

As Horse-Shoe received these tokens of victory, he 
asked, with a lambent smile, and what he intended to be 
an elegant and condescending composure, "Your name, 
sir, if I mought take the freedom?" 

" Ensign St. Jermyn, of his Majesty's seventy-first reg- 
iment of light infantry." 

"Ensign, your servant," added Horse-Shoe, still pre- 
serving this unusual exhibition of politeness. "You 
have defended your post like ah old sodger, although 
you ha'n't much beard on your chin; but seeing you 
have given up, you shall be treated like a man who has 



THE CAPTURE OF FIVE SCOTCHMEN 87 

done his duty. You will walk out now, and form your- 
selves in line at the door. I'll engage my men shall do 
you no harm; they are of a marciful breed." 

When the little squad of prisoners submitted to this 
command, and came to the door, they were stricken 
with equal astonishment and mortification to find, in 
the place of the detachment of cavalry which they ex- 
pected to see, nothing but a man, a boy, and a horse. 
Their first emotions were expressed in curses, which 
were even succeeded by laughter from one or two of the 
number. There seemed to be a disposition on the part 
of some to resist the authority that now controlled them ; 
and sundry glances were exchanged, which indicated a 
purpose to turn upon their captors. The sergeant no 
sooner perceived this, than he halted, raised his rifle 
to his breast, and at the same instant, gave Andrew 
Ramsay an order to retire a few paces, and to fire one of 
the captured pieces at the first man who opened his lips. 

"By my hand," he said, "if I find any trouble in tak- 
ing you, all five, safe away from this house, I will thin 
your numbers with your own muskets! And that's 
as good as if I had sworn it." 

"You have my word, sir," said the Ensign. "Lead 
on." 

"By your leave, my pretty gentlemen, you will lead 
and I'll follow," replied Horse-Shoe. "It may be a 
new piece of drill to you; but the custom is to give the 
prisoners the post of honor." 

"As you please, sir," answered the ensign. "Where 
do you take us to?" 

"You will march back by the road you came," said 
the sergeant. 

Finding the conqueror determined to execute sum- 
mary martial law upon the first who should mutiny, 



88 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

the prisoners submitted, and marched in double file 
from the hut back toward Ramsay's — Horse-Shoe, with 
Captain Peter's bridle dangling over his arm, and his 
gallant young auxiliary Andrew, laden with double the 
burden of Robinson Crusoe (having all the fire-arms 
packed upon his shoulders), bringing up the rear. In 
this order victors and vanquished returned to David 
Ramsay's. 

"Well, I have brought you your ducks and chickens 
back, mistress," said the sergeant, as he halted the 
prisoners at the door; "and what's more, I have 
brought home a young soldier that is worth his weight 
in gold." 

"Heaven bless my child! my brave boy!" cried the 
mother, seizing the lad in her arms, and unheeding any- 
thing else in the present perturbation of her feelings. 
"I feared ill would come of it; but Heaven has pre- 
served him. Did he behave handsomely, Mr. Robin- 
son? But I am sure he did." 

"A little more venturesome, ma'am, than I wanted 
him to be,'* replied Horse-Shoe; "but he did excellent 
service. These are his prisoners, Mistress Ramsay; 
I should never have got them if it hadn't been for Andy. 
In these drumming and fifing times the babies suck in 
quarrel with their mother's milk. Show me another 
boy in America that's made more prisoners than there 
was men to fight with, that's all!" 



EARLY SETTLERS^ 

BY JOHN JAMES AUDUBON 

I THINK I see them harnessing their horses, and at- 
taching them to their wagons, which are already filled 
with bedding, provisions, and the younger children; 
while on their outside are fastened spinning-wheels and 
looms, and a bucket filled with tar and tallow swings be- 
twixt the hind wheels. Several axes are secured to the 
bolster, and the feeding-trough of the horses contains 
pots, kettles, and pans. The servant now becomes 
a driver, riding the near saddled horse, the wife is 
mounted on another, the worthy husband shoulders his 
gun, and his sons, clad in plain, substantial homespun, 
drive the cattle ahead, and lead the procession, followed 
by the hounds and other dogs. Their day's journey 
is short and not agreeable. The cattle, stubborn or 
wild, frequently leave the road for the woods, giving the 
travellers much trouble; the harness of the horses here 
and there gives way, and immediate repair is needed. 
A basket which has accidentally dropped must be gone 
after, for nothing that they have can be spared. The 
roads are bad, and now and then all hands are called to 
push on the wagon or prevent it from upsetting. Yet 
by sunset they have proceeded perhaps twenty miles. 

^ The scene of these incidents related by Audubon was the 
swamps of Louisiana, in his hfetime very sparsely settled. 

From Stories of a Naturalist. By permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons. 

89 " 



90 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Fatigued, all assemble around the fire, which has been 
lighted; supper is prepared, and a camp being run up, 
there they pass the night. Days and weeks pass before 
they gain the end of the journey. They have crossed 
both the Carolinas, Georgia, and Alabama. They have 
been travelling from the beginning of May to that of 
September, and with heavy hearts they traverse the 
neighborhood of the Mississippi. But now arrived 
on the banks of the broad stream, they gaze in amaze- 
ment on the dark deep woods around them. Boats of 
various kinds they see gliding downward with the cur- 
rent, while others slowly ascend against it. A few 
inquiries are made at the nearest dwelling, and assisted 
by the inhabitants with their boats and canoes, they at 
once cross the river, and select their place of habitation. 
The exhalations rising from the swamps and morasses 
around them have a powerful effect on these new settlers, 
but all are intent on preparing for the winter. A small 
patch of ground is cleared by the axe and fire, a tem- 
porary cabin is erected; to each of the cattle is attached 
a bell before it is let loose into the neighboring cane- 
brake, and the horses remain about the house, where 
they find sufficient food at that season. The first 
trading boat that stops at their landing enables them to 
provide themselves with some flour, fish-hooks, and 
ammunition, as well as other commodities. The looms 
are mounted, the spinning-wheels soon furnish yarn, 
and in a few weeks the family throw off their ragged 
clothes, and array themselves in suits adapted to the 
climate. 

The father and sons meanwhile have sown turnips 
and other vegetables; and from some Kentucky flat- 
boat a supply of live poultry has been purchased. 
October tinges the leaves of the forest; the morning dews 



EARLY SETTLERS 91 

are heavy; the days hot and the nights chill, and the 
unacclimatized family in a few days are attacked with 
ague. The lingering disease almost prostrates their 
whole faculties. Fortunately the unhealthy season soon 
passes over, and the hoar-frosts make their appearance. 
Gradually each individual recovers strength. The 
largest ash trees are felled, their trunks are cut, split, 
and corded in front of the building; a large fire is lighted 
at night on the edge of the water, and soon a steamer 
calls to purchase the wood, and thus add to their com- 
forts during the winter. This first fruit of their industry 
imparts new courage to them; their exertions multiply, 
and when spring returns the place has a cheerful look. 
Venison, bear's flesh, and turkeys, ducks, and geese, 
with now and then some fish, have served to keep up 
their strength, and now their enlarged field is planted 
with corn, potatoes, and pumpkins. Their stock of cat- 
tle, too, has augmented; the steamer which now stops 
there, as if by preference, buys a calf or pig together 
with their wood. Their store of provisions is renewed, 
and brighter rays of hope enliven their spirits. 
' The sons discover a swamp covered with excellent 
timber, and as they have seen many great rafts of saw- 
logs, bound for the saw-mills of New Orleans, floating 
past their dwelling, they resolve to try the success of a 
little enterprise. A few cross-saws are purchased, and 
some broad-wheeled ''carry-logs" are made by them- 
selves. Log after log is hauled to the bank of the river, 
and in a short time their first raft is made on the shore, 
and loaded with cord wood. When the next freshet sets 
it afloat it is secured by long grapevines or cables, until, 
the proper time being arrived, the husband and sons 
embark on it and float down the mighty stream. After 
encountering many difficulties, they arrive in safety at 



92 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

New Orleans, where they dispose of their stock, the 
money obtained for which may be said to be all profit; 
supply themselves with such articles as may add to their 
convenience or comfort, and with light hearts procure 
a passage on the upper deck of a steamer at a very cheap 
rate, on account of the benefit of their labors in taking 
in wood or otherwise. Every successive year has in- 
creased their savings. They now possess a large 
stock of horses, cows, and hogs, with abundance of pro- 
visions, and domestic comforts of every kind. The 
daughters have been married to the sons of neighboring 
squatters, and have gained sisters to themselves by the 
marriage of their brothers. 



THE TALE OF A "LIVE OAKER" 

BY JOHN JAMES AUDUBON 

The condition of a man lost in the woods is one of 
the most perplexing that could be imagined by a person 
who has not himself been in a like predicament. Every 
object he sees he at first thinks he recognizes; and while 
his whole mind is bent on searching for more that may 
gradually lead to his extrication, he goes on committing 
greater errors the farther he proceeds. This was the 
case with the "live oaker." The sun was now setting 
with a fiery aspect, and by degrees it sunk in its full cir- 
cular form, as if giving warning of a sultry to-morrow. 
Myriads of insects, delighted at its departure, now filled 
the air on buzzing wings. Each piping frog arose from 
the muddy pool in which it had concealed itself, the 
squirrel retired to its hole, the crow to its roost, and, 
far above, the harsh croaking voice of the heron an- 
nounced that, full of anxiety, it was wending its way 
to the miry interior of some distant swamp. Now the 
woods began to resound to the shrill cries of the owl, 
and the breeze, as it swept among the columnar stems of 
the forest trees, was laden with heavy and chilling dew. 
Alas! no moon with her silvery light shone on the 
dreary scene, and the lost one, wearied and vexed, laid 
himself down on the damp ground. Prayer is always 
consolatory to man in every difficulty and danger, and 
the woodsman fervently prayed to his Maker, wished 

From Stories of a Naturalist. By permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons. 

93 



94 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

his family a happier night than it was his lot to experi- 
ence, and with a feverish anxiety waited the return of 
the day. You may imagine the length of that cold, 
dull, moonless night. With the dawn of day came the 
usual fogs of those latitudes. The poor man started 
on his feet, and with a sorrowful heart pursued a course 
which he thought might lead him to some familiar ob- 
ject, although, indeed, he scarcely knew what he was 
doing. No longer had he the trace of a track to guide 
him, and yet, as the sun rose, he calculated the many 
hours of daylight he had before him, and the farther he 
went continued to walk the faster. But vain were all 
his hopes: that day was spent in fruitless efforts to 
regain the path that led to his home, and when night 
again approached, the terror that had been gradually 
spreading over his mind — together with the nervous 
debility induced by fatigue, anxiety, and hunger — ren- 
dered him almost frantic. He told me that at this mo- 
ment he beat his breast, tore his hair, and, had it not 
been for the piety with which his parents had in early 
life imbued his mind, and which had become habitual, 
would have cursed his existence. 

Famished as he now was, he laid himself on the ground 
and fed on the weeds and grass that grew around him. 
That night was spent in the greatest agony and horror. 
"I knew my situation," he said to me; *'I was fully 
aware that, unless Almighty God came to my assistance, 
I must perish in those uninhabited woods. I knew that 
I had walked more than fifty miles, although I had not 
met with a brook from which I could quench my thirst, 
or even allay the burning heat of my parched lips and 
bloodshot eyes. 

"I knew that if I could not meet with some stream I 
must die, for my axe was my only weapon ; and although 



THE TALE OF A "LIVE OAKER" 95 

deer and bears now and then started within a few yards 
or even feet of me, not one of them could I kill; and 
although I was in the midst of abundance, not a mouth- 
ful did I expect to procure, to satisfy the cravings of my 
empty stomach. Sir, may God preserve you from ever 
feeling as I did the whole of that day!" For several 
days after no one can imagine the condition in which he 
was, for when he related to me this painful adventure, 
he assured me he had lost all recollection of what had 
happened. "God," he continued, "must have taken 
pity on me, one day, for as I ran wildly through those 
dreadful pine barrens I met a tortoise. I gazed upon it 
with delight and amazement, and although I knew 
that, were I to follow it undisturbed it must lead me to 
water, my hunger and thirst would not allow me to re- 
frain from satisfying both by eating its flesh and drink- 
ing its blood. With one stroke of my axe the beast was 
cut in two; in a few moments I despatched all but the 
shell. Oh, sir, how much I thanked God, whose kind- 
ness had put the tortoise in my way! I felt greatly re- 
nevi^ed. I sat down at the foot of a pine, gazed on the 
heavens, thought of my poor wife and children, and 
again and again thanked God for my life, for now I 
felt less distracted in mind, and more assured that be- 
fore long I must recover my way, and get back to my 
home." The lost one remained and passed the night 
at the foot of the same tree under which his repast had 
been made. Refreshed by a sound sleep, he started 
at dawn to resume his weary march. The sun rose 
bright, and he followed the direction of the shadows. 
Still the dreariness of the woods was the same, and he 
was on the point of giving up in despair, when he ob- 
served a raccoon lying squatted in the grass. Raising 
his axe, he drove it with such violence through the help- 



96 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

less animal, that it expired without a struggle. What 
he had done with the turtle he now did with the raccoon, 
the greater part of which he actually devoured at one 
meal. With more comfortable feelings he then resumed 
his wanderings — his journey I cannot say — for although 
in the possession of all his faculties, and in broad 
daylight, he was worse off than a lame man groping his 
way in the dark out of a dungeon, of which he knew not 
where the door stood. Days one after another passed — 
nay, weeks in succession. He fed now on cabbage trees, 
then on frogs and snakes. All that fell in his way was 
welcome and savory. Yet he became daily more 
emaciated, and at length he could scarcely crawl; forty 
days had elapsed by his own reckoning, when he at last 
reached the banks of the river. His clothes in tatters, 
his once bright axe dimmed with rust, his face begrimed 
with beard, his hair matted, and his feeble frame little 
better than a skeleton covered with parchment, there he 
laid himself down to die. Amid the perturbed dreams 
of his fevered fancy, he thought he heard the noise of 
oars far away on the silent river.. He listened, but the 
sounds died away on his ear. It was indeed a dream, 
the last glimmer of expiring hope, and now the light of 
life was about to be quenched forever. But again the 
sound of oars woke his lethargy. He listened so eagerly 
that the hum of a fly could not have escaped his ear. 
They were indeed the measured beat of oars ; and now, 
joy to the forlorn soul ! the sound of human voices thrilled 
his heart, and awoke the tumultuous pulses of returning 
hope. On his knees did God see that poor man, by 
the broad still stream, that glittered in the sunbeams, 
and human eyes saw him too, for round the headland 
covered with tangled brushwood boldly advances the 
little boat, propelled by its lusty rowers. The lost 



THE TALE OF A "LIVE OAKER" 97 

one raises his feeble voice on high; it is a shrill, loud 
scream of joy and fear. The rowers pause, and look 
around. Another, but feebler scream, and they observe 
him. It comes — his heart flutters, his sight is dimmed, 
his brain reels, he gasps for breath! It comes — it has 
run upon the beach, and the lost one is found. 

This is no tale of fiction, but the relation of an actual 
occurrence, which might be embellished no doubt, but 
which is better in the plain garb of truth. The notes by 
which I recorded it were written in the cabin of the once 
lost ''live oaker" about four years after the painful 
incident occurred. His amiable wife and loving children 
were present at the recital, and never shall I forget the 
tears that flowed from them as they listened to it, albeit 
it had long been more familiar to them than a tale twice 
told. It only remains for me to say that the distance 
between the cabin and the live oak hummock to which 
the woodsman w^as bound scarcely exceeded eight miles, 
while the part of the river at which he was found was 
thirty-eight miles from his house. Calculating his 
daily wanderings at ten miles, we may believe that they 
amounted in all to four hundred. He must therefore 
have rambled in a circuitous direction, which people 
generally do in such circumstances. Nothing but the 
great strength of his constitution and the merciful aid 
of his Maker could have supported him for so long a 
time. 



THE KEG OF POWDER 

BY DAVID CROCKETT 1 

I GATHERED my com, and then set out for my falFs 
hunt. This was in the last of October, 1822. I found 
bear very plenty, and, indeed, all sorts of game, and wild 
varments, except buffalo. There was none of them. I 
hunted on till Christmas, having supplied my family 
very well all along with wild meat, at which time my 
powder gave out; and I had none either to fire Christ- 
mas guns, which is very common in that country, or to 
hunt with. I had a brother-in-law who had now moved 
out and settled about six miles west of me, on the oppo- 
site side of Rutherford's fork of the Obion River, and he 
had brought me a keg of powder, but I had never got- 
ten it home. There had just been another of Noah's 
freshets, and the low grounds were flooded all over with 
water. I know'd the stream was at least a mile wide 
which I would have to cross, as the water was from 
hill to hill, and yet I determined to go on over in some 
way or other, so as to get my powder. I told this to my 
wife, and she immediately opposed it with all her might. 
I still insisted, telling her we had no powder for Christ- 
mas, and worse than all, we were out of meat. She 
said we had as well starve as for me to freeze to death 

^ Although Crockett knew little of the grammar and orthog- 
raphy of the language, his stories are racy and amusing. He, 
better than any other, gives adequate expression to the life and 
times of the real pioneer in the South. 

From The Life of David Crockett, by Himself. 
98 



THE KEG OF POWDER 99 

or to get drowned, and one or the other was certain if I 
attempted to go. 

But I didn't believe the half of this; and so I took my 
woolen wrappers, and a pair of moccasins, and put 
them on and tied up some dry clothes, and a pair of 
shoes and stockings, and started. But I didn't before 
know how much anybody could suffer and not die. 
This, and some of my other experiments in water, learned 
me something about it, and I therefore relate them. 

The snow was about four inches deep when I started, 
and when I got to the w^ater, which was only about a 
quarter of a mile off, it looked like an ocean. I put in, 
and waded on till I come to the channel, where I crossed 
that on a high log. I then took water again, having my 
gun and all my hunting tools along, and waded till I 
came to a deep slough, that was wider than the river 
itself. I had crossed it often on a log; but behold, when 
I got there, no log was to be seen. I know'd of an island 
in the slough, and a sapling stood on it close to the side 
of that log, which was now entirely under water. I 
knowed further, that the water was about eight or ten 
feet deep under the log, and I judged it to be about three 
feet deep over it. After studying a little what I should 
do, I determined to cut a forked sapling, which stood 
near me, so as to lodge it against the one that stood on 
the island, in which I succeeded very w^ell. I then cut 
me a pole, and then crawled along on my sapling till I 
got to the one it was lodged against, which was about six 
feet above the water. I then felt about with my pole till 
I found the log, which was just about as deep under the 
water as I had judged. I then crawled back and got my 
gun, which I had left at the stump of the sapling I had 
cut, and again made my way to the place of lodgment, 
and then climbed down the other sapling so as to get 



100 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

on the log. I then felt my way along with my feet, in the 
water about waist deep, but it was a mighty ticklish 
business. However, I got over, and by this time I had 
very little feeling in my feet and legs, as I had been all 
the time in the water, except what time I was crossing 
the high log over the river, and climbing my lodged 
sapling. 

I went but a short distance before I came to another 
slough, over which there was a log, but it was floating on 
the water. I thought I could walk it, and so I mounted 
on it; but when I had got about the middle of the 
deep water, somehow or somehow else, it turned over, 
and I went up to my head. I waded out of this deep 
water, and went ahead till I came to the highland, 
where I stopp'd to pull off my wet clothes, and put 
on the others, which I had held up with my gun, 
above the water, when I fell in. I got them on, but 
my flesh had no feeling in it, I was so cold. I tied 
up the wet ones, and hung them up in a bush. I now 
thought I would run, so as to warm myself a little, but I 
couldn't raise a trot for some time; indeed, I couldn't 
step more than half the length of my foot. After a 
while I got better, and went on five miles to the house 
of my brother-in-law, having not even smelt fire from the 
time I started. I got there late in the evening, and he 
was much astonished at seeing me at such a time. I 
stayed all night, and the next morning was most piercing 
cold, and so they persuaded me not to go home that day. 
I agreed, and turned out and killed him two deer; but 
the weather still got worse and colder, instead of better. 
I staid that night, and in the morning they still insisted 
I couldn't get home. I knowed the water would be 
frozen over, but not hard enough to bear me, and so I 
agreed to stay that day. I went out hunting again, and 



THE KEG OF POWDER 101 

pursued a big he-bear all day, but didn't kill him. The 
next morning was bitter cold, but I knowed my family 
was without meat, and I determined to get home to 
them, or die a-trying. 

I took my keg of powder, and all my hunting tools, 
and cut out. When I got to the water, it was a sheet 
of ice as far as I could see. I put on to it but hadn't 
got far before it broke through with me; and so I took 
out my tomahawk, and broke my way along before me 
for a considerable distance. At last I got to where the 
ice would bear me for a short distance, and I mounted 
on it, and went ahead; but it soon broke in again, and 
I had to wade on till I came to my floating log. I found 
it so tight this time, that I know'd it couldn't give me 
another fall, as it was frozen in with the ice. I crossed 
over it without much difficulty, and worked along till I 
got to my lodged sapling and my log under the water. 
The swiftness of the current prevented the water from 
freezing over it, and so I had to wade, just as I did when 
I crossed it before. When I got to my sapling, I left 
my gun, and climbed out with my powder keg first, and 
then went back and got my gun. By this time I was 
nearly frozen to death, but I saw all along before me 
where the ice had been fresh broke, and I thought it 
must be a bear straggling about in the water. I, there- 
fore, fresh primed my gun, and, cold as I was, I was 
determined to make war on him, if we met. But I fol- 
fowed the trail till it led me home, and then I found it 
had been made by my young man that lived with me, 
who had been sent by my distressed wife to see, if he 
could, what had become of me, for they all believed I 
was dead. When I got home, I wasn't quite dead, but 
mighty nigh it; but had my powder, and that was what 
I went for. 



THE BEAR HUNT 

BY DAVID CROCKETT 

In the morning I left my son at the camp, and we 
started on towards the harricane, and when we had went 
about a mile, we started a very large bear, but we got 
along mighty slow on account of the cracks in the earth 
occasioned by the earthquakes. We, however, made 
out to keep in hearing of the dogs for about three miles, 
and then we come to the harricane. Here we had to 
quit our horses, as old Nick himself couldn't have got 
through it w^ithout sneaking it along in the form that 
he put on to make a fool of our old grandmother Eve. 
By this time several of my dogs had got tired and come 
back; but we went ahead on foot for some little time 
in the harricane, when we met a bear coming straight 
to us, and not more than twenty or thirty yards off. I 
started my tired dogs after him, and McDaniel pursued 
them, and I went on to where my other dogs were. I 
had seen the track of the bear they were after, and I 
knowed he was a screamer. I followed on to about the 
middle of the harricane, but my dogs pursued him so 
close, that they made him climb an old stump about 
twenty feet high. I got in shooting distance of him and 
fired, but I was all over in such a flutter from fatigue 
and running, that I couldn't hold steady; but, however, 
I broke his shoulder, and he fell. I run up and loaded 

From The Life of David Crockett, by Himself. 
102 



THE BEAR HUNT 103 

my gun as quick as possible, and shot him again and 
killed him. When I went to take out my knife to 
butcher him, I found that I had lost it in coming through 
the harricane. The vines and briars was so thick that I 
would sometimes have to get down and crawl like a 
varment to get through it all; and a vine had, as I 
supposed, caught in the handle and pulled it out. While 
I was standing and studying what to do, my friend 
came to me. He had followed my trail through the 
harricane, and had found my knife, which was mighty 
good news to me; as a hunter hates the worst in the 
world to lose a good dog, or any part of his hunting tools. 
I now left McDaniel to butcher the bear, and I went 
after our horses, and brought them as near as the nat- 
ure of the case would allow. I then took our bags, and 
went back to where he was; and when we skinned the 
bear, we fleeced off the fat and carried it to our horses at 
several loads. We then packed it up on our horses, and 
had a heavy pack of it on each one. We now started 
and went on till about sunset, when I concluded we must 
be near our camp; so I hollered and my son answered 
me, and we moved on in the direction to the camp. We 
had gone but a little way when I heard my dogs make a 
warm start again; and I jumped down from my horse 
and gave him up to my friend, and told him I would 
follow them. He went on to the camp, and I went 
ahead after my dogs with all my might for a consider- 
able distance, till at last night came on. The woods 
were very rough and hilly, and all covered over with 
cane. 

I now was compelled to move more slowly; and was 
frequently falling over logs, and into the cracks made by 
the earthquakes, so I was very much afraid I would 
break my gun. However, I went on about three miles. 



104 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

when I came to a good big creek, which I waded. It 
was very cold, and the creek was about knee-deep; but 
I felt no great inconvenience from it just then, as I was 
over wet with sweat from running, and I felt hot enough. 
x\fter I got over this creek and out of the cane, which 
was verv thick on all our creeks, I listened for my dogs. 
I found they had either treed or brought the bear to a 
stop, as they continued barking in the same place. I 
pushed on as near in the direction of the noise as I could, 
till I found the hill was too steep for me to climb, and so 
I backed and went down the creek some distance, till I 
came to a hollow, and then took up that, till I came to a 
place where I could climb up the hill. It was mighty 
dark, and was difficult to see my way, or anything else. 
When I got up the hill, I found I had passed the dogs; 
and so I turned and went to them. I found, when I got 
there, they had treed the bear in a large forked poplar, 
and it was setting in the fork. 

I could see the lump, but not plain enough to 
shoot with any certainty, as there was no moonlight; 
and so set in to hunting for some dry brush to make 
me a light; but I could find none, though I could 
find that the ground was torn mightily to pieces by 
the cracks.^ 

At last I thought I could shoot by guess, and kill him; 
so I pointed as near the lump as I could, and fired away. 
But the bear didn't come, he only dumb up higher, and 
got out on a limb, which helped me to see him better. 
I now loaded up again and fired, but this time he didn't 
move at all. I commenced loading for a third fire, but 
the first thing I knowed, the bear was down among my 
dogs, and they were fighting all around me. I had my 
big butcher in my belt, and I had a pair of dressed 
^ Caused by earthquakes. 



THE BEAR HUNT 105 

breeches on. So I took out mj knife, and stood, de- 
termined, if he should get hold of me, to defend myself 
in the best way I could. I stood there for some time, 
and could now and then see a white dog I had, but the 
rest of them, and the bear, which were dark colored, I 
couldn't see at all, it was so miserable dark. They still 
fought around me, and sometimes within three feet of 
me; but, at last, the bear got down into one of the cracks 
that the earthquakes had made in the ground, about 
four feet deep, and I could tell the biting end of him by 
the hollering of my dogs. So I took my gun and pushed 
the muzzle of it about, till I thought I had it against the 
main part of his body, and fired ; but it happened to be 
only the fleshy part of his foreleg. With this he jumped 
out of the crack, and he and the dogs had another hard 
fight around me, as before. At last, however, they 
forced him back into the crack again, as he was when I 
had shot. 

I had laid down my gun in the dark, and I now began 
to hunt for it; and, while hunting, I got hold of a pole, 
and I concluded I would punch him awhile with that. 
I did so, and when I would punch him the dogs would 
jump in on him, when he would bite them badly, and 
they would jump out again. I concluded, as he would 
take punching so patiently, it might be that he would 
lie still enough for me to get down in the crack, and feel 
slowly along till I could find the right place to give him a 
dig with my butcher. So I got down, and my dogs got 
in before him and kept his head towards them, till I got 
along easily up to him; and placing my hand on his 
rump, felt for his shoulder, just behind where I intended 
to stick him. I made a lunge with my long knife, and 
fortunately struck him right through the heart, at which 
he just sank down, and I crawled out in a hurry. In a 



106 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

little time my dogs all come out too, and seemed satis- 
fied, which was the way they always had of telling me 
that they had finished him. 

I suffered very much that night with cold, as my 
leather breeches and everything else I had on was wet 
and frozen. But I managed to get my bear out of this 
crack after several hard trials, and so I butchered 
him and laid down to try to sleep. But my fire was 
very bad, and I couldn't find anything that would burn 
well to make it any better; and so I concluded I should 
freeze; if I didn't warm myself in some way by exercise. 
So I got up and hollered awhile, and then I would just 
jump up and down with all my might, and throw my- 
self into all sorts of motions. But all this wouldn't do; 
for my blood was now getting cold, and the chills coming 
all over me. I was so tired, too, that I could hardly 
walk; but I thought I would do the best I could to save 
my life, and then, if I died, nobody would be to blame. 
So I went up to a tree about two feet through and not 
a limb on it for thirty feet, and I would climb up to the 
limbs, and then lock my arms together around it, and 
slide down to the bottom again. This would make the 
inside of my legs and arms feel mighty warm and good. 
I continued this till daylight in the morning, and how 
often I climbed up my tree and slid down I don't know, 
but I reckon at least a hundred times. 

In the morning I got my bear hung up so as to be safe, 
and then set out to hunt for my camp. I found it after 
awhile, and McDaniel and my son were very much 
rejoiced to see me get back, for they were about to give 
me up for lost. We got our breakfasts, and then se- 
cured our meat by building a high scaffold, and covering 
it over. We had no fear of its spoiling, for the weather 
was so cold that it couldn't. 



THE BEAR HUNT 107 

We now started after my other bear, which had 
caused me so much trouble and suffering; and before 
we got him, we got a start after another, and took him 
also. We went on to the creek I had crossed the night 
before, and camped, and then went to where my bear 
was that I had killed in the crack. When we examined 
the place, McDaniel said he wouldn't have gone into it, 
as I did, for all the bears in the woods. 

We then took the meat down to our camp and salted 
it, and also the last one we had killed; intending in the 
morning, to make a hunt in the harricane again. 

We prepared for resting that night, and I can assure 
the reader I was in need of it. We had laid down by our 
fire, and about ten o'clock there came a most terrible 
earthquake, which shook the earth so, that we rocked 
about like we had been in a cradle. We were very much 
alarmed; for though we were accustomed to feel earth- 
quakes, we were now right in the region which had been 
torn to pieces by them in 1812, and we thought it might 
take a notion and swallow us up, like the big fish did 
Jonah. 

In the morning, we packed up and moved to the har- 
ricane, where we made another camp, and turned out 
that evening and killed a very large bear, which made 
eight we had now killed in this hunt. 

The next morning we entered the harricane again, 
and in a little or no time my dogs were in full cry. We 
pursued them, and soon came to a thick canebrake, in 
which they had stopped their bear. We got up close to 
him, as the cane was so thick that we couldn't see more 
than a few feet. Here I made my friend hold the cane 
a little open with his gun till I shot the bear, which 
was a mighty large one. I killed him dead in his tracks. 
We got him out and butchered him, and in a little time 



108 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

started another and killed him, which now made ten 
we had killed; and we knowed we couldn't pack any 
more home, as we had only five horses along; therefore 
we returned to the camp and salted up all our meat,, to 
be ready for a start homeward next morning. 

The morning came, and we packed our horses with 
meat, and had as much as they could possibly carry, and 
sure enough cut out for home. It was about thirty miles, 
and we reached home the second day. I had now ac- 
commodated my neighbor with meat enough to do him, 
and had killed in all, up to that time, fifty-eight bears, 
during the fall and winter. 

As soon as the time come for them to quit their houses 
and come out again in the spring, I took a notion to 
hunt a little more, and in about one month I killed 
forty-seven more, which made one hundred and five 
bears which I had killed in less than one year from that 
time. 



THE BURIAL OF THE GUNS 

BY THOMAS NELSON PAGE 

Lee surrendered the remnant of his army at Ap- 
pomattox, April 9, 1865, and yet a couple of days later 
the old Colonel's battery lay intrenched right in the 
mountain-pass where it had halted three days before. 
Two weeks previously it had been detailed with a light 
division sent to meet and repel a force which it was 
understood was coming in by way of the south-west 
valley to strike Lee in the rear of his long line from 
Richmond to Petersburg. It had done its work. The 
mountain-pass had been seized and held, and the Fed- 
eral force had not gotten by that road within the blue 
rampart which guarded on that side the heart of Virginia. 
This pass, which was the key to the main line of passage 
over the mountains, had been assigned by the com- 
mander of the division to the old Colonel and his old 
battery, and they had held it. The position taken by the 
battery had been chosen with a soldier's eye. A better 
place could not have been selected to hold the pass. It 
was its highest point, just where the road crawled over 
the shoulder of the mountain along the limestone cliff, 
a hundred feet sheer above the deep river, where its 
waters had cut their way in ages past, and now lay deep 
and silent, as if resting after their arduous toil before 

From The Burial of the Guns. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 

109 



110 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

they began to boil over the great bowlders which filled 
the bed a hundred or more yards below. 

The little plateau at the top guarded the descending 
road on either side for nearly a mile, and the mountain 
on the other side of the river was the centre of a clump 
of rocky, heavily timbered spurs, so inaccessible that no 
feet but those of wild animals or of the hardiest hunter 
had ever climbed it. On the side of the river on which 
the road lay, the only path out over the mountain except 
the road itself was a charcoal-burner's track, dwindling 
at timies to a footway known only to the mountain-folk, 
which a picket at the top could hold against an army. 
The position, well defended, was impregnable, and it 
was well defended. This the general of the division 
knew when he detailed the old Colonel and gave him 
his order to hold the pass until relieved, and not let his 
guns fall into the hands of the enemy. He knew both 
the Colonel and his battery. The battery was one of the 
oldest in the army. It had been in the service since 
April, 1861, and its commander had come to be known 
as "The ^Mieel Horse of his division." He was, per- 
haps, the oldest ofiicer of his rank in his branch of the 
service. Although he had bitterly opposed secession, 
and was many years past the age of service w^hen the war 
came on, yet as soon as the President called on the State 
for her quota of troops to coerce South Carolina, he had 
raised and uniformed an artillery company, and ofl&ered 
it, not to the President of the United States, but to the 
Governor of Virginia. 

It is just at this point that he suddenly looms up to me 
as a soldier; the relation he never wholly lost to me 
afterward, though I knew him for many, many years of 
peace. His gray coat with the red facing and the bars 
on the collar; his military cap; his gray flannel shirt — 



THE BURIAL OF THE GUNS 111 

it was the first time I ever saw him wear anything but 
immaculate linen — his high boots; his horse caparisoned^ 
with a black, high-peaked saddle, with crupper and 
breast-girth, instead of the light English hunting-saddle 
to which I had been accustomed, all come before me 
now as if it were but the other day. I remember but 
little beyond it, yet I remember, as if it were yesterday, 
his leaving home, and the scenes which immediately 
preceded it; the excitement created by the news of the 
President's call for troops; the unanimous judgment 
that it meant war; the immediate determination of the 
old Colonel, who had hitherto opposed secession, that it 
must be met; the suppressed agitation on the plantation 
attendant upon the tender of his services and the gov- 
ernor's acceptance of them. The prompt and contin- 
uous work incident to the enlistment of the men, the 
bustle of preparation, and all the scenes of that time, 
come before me now. It turned the calm current of 
the life of an old and placid country neighborhood, far 
from any city or centre, and stirred it into a boiling 
torrent, strong enough, or fierce enough to cut its way 
and join the general torrent which was bearing down 
and sweeping everything before it. It seemed but a 
minute before the quiet old plantation, in which the 
harvest, the corn-shucking, and the Christmas holidays 
alone marked the passage of the quiet seasons, and where 
a strange carriage or a single horseman coming down the 
big road was an event in life, was turned into a depot of 
war-supplies, and the neighborhood became a parade- 
ground. The old Colonel, not a colonel yet, nor even 
a captain, except by brevet, was on his horse by day- 
break and off on his rounds through the plantations and 
the pines enlisting his company. The office in the yard, 
^ Harnessed with decorative trappings. 



112 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

heretofore one in name only, became one now in reality, 
and a table was set out piled with papers, pens, ink, 
books of tactics and regulations, at which men were ac- 
cepted and enrolled. Soldiers seemed to spring from 
the ground, as they did from the sowing of the dragon's 
teeth in the days of Cadmus. Men came up the high 
road or down the paths across the fields, sometimes 
singly, but oftener in little parties of two or three, and, 
asking for the Captain, entered the office as private citi- 
zens and came out soldiers enlisted for the war. There 
was nothing heard of on the plantation except fighting; 
white and black, all were at work, and all were eager; 
the servants contended for the honor of going with their 
master; the women flocked to the house to assist in the 
work of preparation, cutting out and making under- 
clothes, knitting socks, picking lint, preparing ban- 
dages, and sewing on uniforms; for many of the men 
who had enlisted were of the poorest class, far too poor 
to furnish anything themselves, and their equipment had 
to be contributed mainly by wealthier neighbors. The 
work was carried on at night as well as by day, for the 
occasion was urgent. ^leantime the men were being 
drilled by the Captain and his lieutenants, who had been 
militia officers of old. We were carried to see the drill 
at the cross-roads, and a brave sight it seemed to us: 
the lines marching and countermarching in the field, 
with the horses galloping as they wheeled amid clouds 
of dust, at the hoarse commands of the excited officers, 
and the roadside lined with spectators of every age and 
condition. I recall the arrival of the messenger one 
night, with the telegraphic order to the Captain to report 
with his company at *'Camp Lee" immediately; the 
hush in the parlor that attended its reading; then the 
forced beginning of the conversation afterward in a some- 



THE BURIAL OF THE GUNS 113 

what strained and unnatural key, and the Captain's 
quick and decisive outlining of his plans. 

Within the hour a dozen messengers were on their 
way in various directions to notify the members of the 
command of the summons, and to deliver the order for 
their attendance at a given point next day. It seemed 
that a sudden and great change had come. It was the 
actual appearance of what had hitherto only been 
theoretical — war. The next morning the Captain, in 
full uniform, took leave of the assembled plantation, 
with a few solemn words commending all he left behind 
to God, and galloped away up the big road to join and 
lead his battery to the war, and to be gone just four 
years. 

Within a month he was on '^the Peninsula" with 
Magruder, guarding Virginia on the east against the first 
attack. His camp was first at Yorktown and then on 
Jamestown Island, the honor having been assigned his 
battery of guarding the oldest cradle of the race on this 
continent. It was at "Little Bethel" that his guns 
were first trained on the enemy, and that the battery first 
saw what they had to do, and from this time until the 
middle of April, 1865, they were in service, and no bat- 
tery saw more service or suffered more in it. Its story 
was a part of the story of the Southern army in Virginia. 
The Captain was a rigid disciplinarian, and his company 
had more work to do than most new companies. A 
pious churchman, of the old puritanical type not un- 
common to Virginia, he looked after the spiritual as 
well as the physical welfare of his men, and his chaplain 
or he read prayers at the head of his company every 
morning during the war. At first he was not popular 
with the men; he made the duties of camp life so onerous 
to them, it was ''nothing but drilling and praying all 



114 SOUTHERN PROSE .\XD POETRY 

the time," they said. But he had not commanded very 
long before they came to know the stuff that was in him. 
He had not been in service a year before he had had 
four horses shot under him, and when later on he was 
offered the command of a battalion, the old company 
petitioned to be one of his batteries, and still remained 
under his command. Before the first year was out the 
battery had, through its own elements, and the discipline 
of the Captain, become a cohesive force, and a distinct in- 
teger in the Army of Northern Virginia. Young farmer 
recruits knew of its prestige and expressed preference 
for it over many batteries of rapidly growing or grown 
reputation. Owing to its high stand, the old and clumsy 
guns with which it had started out were taken from it, 
and in their place was presented a battery of four fine, 
brass, twelve-pound Napoleons of the newest and most 
approved kind, and two three-inch Parrotts, all captured. 
The men were as pleased with them as children with new 
toys. The care and attention needed to keep them in 
prime order broke the monotony of camp life. They 
soon had abundant opportunities to test their power. 
They worked admirably, carried far, and were extraor- 
dinarily accurate in their aim. The men from ad- 
miration of their guns grew to have first a pride in, and 
then an affection for, them, and gave them nicknames 
as they did their comrades; the four Napoleons being 
dubbed ''The Evangelists," and the two rifles being 
"The Eagle," because of its scream and force, and 
"The Cat," because when it became hot from rapid 
firing " it jumped," they said, "like a cat." From many 
a hill-top in Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania "The 
Evangelists" spoke their hoarse message of battle and 
death, "The Eagle" screamed her terrible note, and 
"The Cat" jumped as she spat her deadly shot from her 



THE BURIAL OF THE GUNS 115 

hot throat. In the Valley of Virginia; on the levels of 
Henrico and Hanover; on the slopes of Manassas ; in the 
woods of Chancellorsville; on the heights of Fredericks- 
burg; at Antietam and Gettysburg; in the Spottsylvania 
wilderness, and again on the Hanover levels and on 
the lines before Petersburg, the old guns through nearly 
four years roared from fiery throats their deadly mes- 
sages. The history of the battery was bound up with 
the history of Lee's army. A rivalry sprang up among 
the detachm^ents of the different guns, and their several 
records were jealously kept. The number of duels each 
gun was in was carefully counted, every scar got in 
battle was treasured, and the men around their camp- 
fires, at their scanty messes, or on the march, bragged of 
them among themselves and avouched them as witnesses. 
New recruits coming in to fill the gaps made by the killed 
and disabled, readily fell in with the common mood and 
caught the spirit like a contagion. It was not an un- 
common thing for a wheel to be smashed in by a shell, 
but if it happened to one gun oftener than to another 
there was envy. Two of the Evangelists seemed to be 
especially favored in this line, while the Cat was so 
exempt as to become the subject of some derision. The 
men stood by the guns till they were knocked to pieces, 
and when the fortune of the day went against them, had 
with their own hands oftener than once saved them after 
most of their horses were killed. 

This had happened in turn to every gun, the men 
at times working like beavers in mud up to their thighs 
and under a murderous fire to get their guns out. Many 
a man had been killed tugging at trail or wheel when the 
day was against them; but not a gun had ever been lost. 
At last the evil day arrived. At Winchester a sudden 
and impetuous charge for a while swept everything be- 



116 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

fore it, and carried the knoll where the old battery was 
posted; but all the guns were got out by the toiling and 
rapidly dropping men, except the Cat, which was 
captured with its entire detachment working at it until 
they were surrounded and knocked from the piece by 
cavalrymen. Most of the men who were not killed were 
retaken before the day was over, with many guns; but 
the Cat was lost. She remained in the enemy's hands 
and probably was being turned against her old comrades 
and lovers. The company was inconsolable. The death 
of comrades was too natural and common a thing to de- 
press the men beyond what such occurrences necessarily 
did ; but to lose a gun ! It was like losing the old Colonel ; 
it was worse: a gun was ranked as a brigadier; and 
the Cat was equal to a major-general. The other guns 
seemed lost without her; the Eagle especially, which 
generally went next to her, appeared to the men to have 
a lonely and subdued air. The battery was no longer 
the same: it seemed broken and depleted, shrunken to 
a mere section. It was worse than Cold Harbor, where 
over half the men were killed or wounded. The old 
Captain, now Colonel of the battalion, appreciated the loss 
and apprehended its effect on the men as much as they 
themselves did, and application was made for a gun to 
take the place of the lost piece; but there was none to 
be had, as the men said they had known all along. It 
was added — perhaps by a department clerk — that if they 
wanted a gun to take the place of the one they had lost, 

they had better capture it. ''By , we will," they 

said — adding epithets, intended for the department 
clerk in his ''bomb-proof," not to be printed in this 
record — and they did. For some time afterward in 
every engagement into which they got there used to be 
speculation among them as to whether the Cat were not 



THE BURIAL OF THE GUNS 117 

there on the other side; some of the men swearing 
they could tell her report, and even going to the rash 
length of offering bets on her presence. 

By one of those curious coincidences, as strange as 
anything in fiction, a new general had, in 1864, come 
down across the Rapidan to take Richmond, and the old 
battery had found a hill-top in the line in which Lee's 
army lay stretched across "the Wilderness" country 
to stop him. The day, though early in May, was a hot 
one, and the old battery, like most others, had suffered 
fearfully. Two of the guns had had wheels cut down 
by shells and the men had been badly cut up; but the 
fortune of the day had been with Lee, and a little before 
nightfall, after a terrible fight, there was a rapid ad- 
vance, Lee's infantry sweeping everything before it, 
and the artillery, after opening the way for the charge, 
pushing along with it; now unlimbering as some van- 
tage-ground was gained, and using canister with deadly 
effect; now driving ahead again so rapidly that it was 
mixed up with the muskets when the long line of breast- 
works was carried with a rush, and a line of guns were 
caught still hot from their rapid work. As the old bat- 
tery, with lathered horses and smoke-grimed men, swung 
up the crest and unlimbered on the captured breast- 
work, a cheer went up which was heard even above the 
long general yell of the advancing line, and for a mo- 
ment half the men in the battery crowded together 
around some object on the edge of the redoubt, yelling 
like madmen. The next instant they divided, and there 
was the Cat, smoke-grimed and blood-stained and still 
sweating hot from her last fire, being dragged from her 
muddy ditch by as many men as could get hold of trail- 
rope or wheel, and rushed into her old place beside the 
Eagle, in time to be double-shotted with canister to the 



lis SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

muzzle, and to pour it from among her old comrades 
into her now retiring former masters. Still, she had a 
new carriage, and her record was lost, while those of the 
other guns had been faithfully kept by the men. This 
made a difference in her position for which even the 
bullets in her wheels did not wholly atone; even Harris, 
the sergeant of her detachment, felt that. 

It was only a few days later, however, that abundant 
atonement was made. The new general did not retire 
across the Rapidan after his first defeat, and a new 
battle had to be fought: a battle, if anything, more 
furious, more terrible than the first, when the dead filled 
the trenches and covered the fields. He simply marched 
by the left flank, and Lee marching by the right 
flank to head him, flung himself upon him again at 
Spottsylvania Court-House. That day the Cat, stand- 
ing in her place behind the new and temporary breast- 
work thrown up when the battery was posted, had the 
felloes of her wheels, which showed above the top of 
the bank, entirely cut away by Minie-bullets, so that 
when she jumped in the recoil her wheels smashed and 
let her doT\Ti. This covered all old scores. The other 
guns had been cut down by shells or solid shot; but 
never before had one been gnawed down by musket- 
balls. From this time all through the campaign the Cat 
held her own beside her brazen and bloody sisters, and 
in the cold trenches before Petersburg that winter, when 
the new general — Starvation — had joined the one already 
there, she made her bloody mark as often as any gun 
on the long lines. 

Thus the old battery had come to be known, as its old 
commander, now colonel of a battalion, had come to be 
known by those in yet higher command. And when 
in the opening spring of 1865 it became apparent to the 



THE BURIAL OF THE GUNS 119 

leaders of both armies that the long line could not longer 
be held if a force should enter behind it, and, sweeping 
the one partially unswept portion of Virginia, cut the 
railways in the south-west, and a man was wanted to 
command the artillery in the expedition sent to meet 
this force, it was not remarkable that the old Colonel 
and his battalion should be selected for the work. The 
force sent out was but small ; for the long line was worn 
to a thin one in those days, and great changes were tak- 
ing place, the consequences of which were known only 
to the commanders. In a few days the commander of 
the expedition found that he must divide his small force 
for a time, at least, to accomplish his purpose, and send- 
ing the old Colonel with one battery of artillery to guard 
one pass, must push on over the mountain by another 
way to meet the expected force, if possible, and repel it 
before it crossed the farther range. Thus, the old bat- 
tery, on an April evening of 1865, found itself toiling 
alone up the steep mountain road which leads above 
the river to the gap, which formed the chief pass in that 
part of the Blue Ridge. Both men and horses looked, 
in the dim and waning light of the gray April day, 
rather like shadows of the beings they represented than 
the actual beings themselves. And any one seeing them 
as they toiled painfully up, the thin horses floundering 
in the mud, and the men, often up to their knees, tugging 
at the sinking wheels, now stopping to rest, and always 
moving so slowly that they seemed scarcely to advance 
at all, might have thought them the ghosts of some old 
battery lost from some long gone and forgotten war on 
that deep and desolate mountain road. Often, when 
they stopped, the blowing of the horses and the mur- 
muring of the river in its bed below were the only sounds 
heard, and the tired voices of the men when they spoke 



120 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

among themselves seemed hardly more articulate sounds 
than they. Then the voice of the mounted figure on the 
roan horse half hidden in the mist would cut in, clear 
and inspiring, in a tone of encouragement more than of 
command, and everything would wake up: the drivers 
would shout and crack their whips; the horses would 
bend themselves on the collars and flounder in the mud ; 
the men would spring once more to the mud-clogged 
wheels, and the slow ascent would begin again. 

The orders to the Colonel, as has been said, were brief: 
To hold the pass until he received further instructions, 
and not to lose his guns. To be ordered, with him, was 
to obey. The last streak of twilight brought them to the 
top of the pass; his soldier's instinct and a brief recon- 
noissance made earlier in the day told him that this was 
his place, and before daybreak next morning the point 
was as well fortified as a night's work by weary and 
supperless men could make it. A prettier spot could 
not have been found for the purpose; a small plateau, 
something over an acre in extent, where a charcoal- 
burner's hut had once stood, lay right at the top of the 
pass. It was a little higher on either side than in the 
middle, where a small brook, along which the charcoal- 
burner's track was yet visible, came down from the 
wooded mountain above, thus giving a natural crest to 
aid the fortification on either side, with open space for 
the guns, while the edge of the wood coming down from 
the mountain afforded shelter for the camp. 

As the battery was unsupported it had to rely on itself 
for everything, a condition which most soldiers by this 
time were accustomed to. A dozen or so of rifles were 
in the camp, and with these pickets were armed and 
posted. The pass had been seized none too soon; a 
scout brought in the information before nightfall that 



THE BURIAL OF THE GUNS 121 

the invading force had crossed the farther range before 
that sent to meet it could get there, and taking the near- 
est road had avoided the main body opposing it, and 
been met only by a rapidly moving detachment, nothing 
more than a scouting party, and now was advancing 
rapidly on the road on which they were posted, evidently 
meaning to seize the pass and cross the mountain at 
this point. The day was Sunday; a beautiful spring 
Sunday; but it was no Sabbath for the old battery. 
All day the men worked, making and strengthening 
their redoubt to guard the pass, and by the next morn- 
ing, with the old battery at the top, it was impregnable. 
They were just in time. Before noon their vedettes 
brought in word that the enemy were ascending the 
mountain, and the sun had hardly turned when the ad- 
vance guard rode up, came within range of the picket, 
and were fired on. 

It was apparent that they supposed the force there 
only a small one, for they retired and soon came up 
again reinforced in some numbers, and a sharp little 
skirmish ensued, hot enough to make them more pru- 
dent afterward, though the picket retired up the moun- 
tain. This gave them encouragement and probably 
misled them, for they now advanced boldly. They 
saw the redoubt on the crest as they came on, and un- 
limbering a section or two, flung a few shells up at it, 
which either fell short or passed over without doing 
material damage. None of the guns was allowed to 
respond, as the distance was too great with the ammu- 
nition the battery had, and, indifferent as it was, it was 
too precious to be wasted in a duel at an ineffectual 
range. Doubtless deceived by this, the enemy came 
on in force, being obliged by the character of the ground 
to keep almost entirely to the road, which really made 



122 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

them advance in column. The battery waited. Un- 
der orders of the Colonel the guns standing in line were 
double-shotted with canister, and, loaded to the muzzle, 
were trained down to sweep the road at from four to 
five hundred yards' distance. And when the column 
reached this point the six guns, aimed by old and skil- 
ful gunners, at a given word swept road and mountain- 
side with a storm of leaden hail. It was a fire no mortal 
man could stand up against, and the practised gunners 
rammed their pieces full again, and before the smoke had 
cleared or the reverberation had died away among the 
mountains, had fired the guns again and yet again. The 
road was cleared of living things when the draught 
setting down the river drew the smoke awav; but it was 
no discredit to the other force; for no army that was ever 
uniformed could stand against that battery in that pass. 
Again and again the attempt was made to get a body 
of men up under cover of the woods and rocks on the 
mountain-side, while the guns below utilized their 
better ammunition from longer range; but it was 
useless. Although one of the lieutenants and several 
men were killed in the skirmish, and a number more 
were wounded, though not severelv, the old batterv 
commanded the mountain-side, and its skilful gunners 
swept it at every point the foot of man could scale. The 
sun went do^sTi flinging his last flame on a victorious 
battery still crowning the mountain pass. The dead 
were buried by night in a corner of the little plateau, 
borne to their last bivouac^ on the old gun-carriages 
which they had stood by so often — which the men 
said would "sort of ease their minds." 

The next day the fight was renewed, and with the 
same result. The old battery in its position was un- 

' Camping-place. 



THE BURIAL OF THE GUNS 123 

conquerable. Only one fear now faced them: their 
ammunition was getting as low as their rations; another 
such day or half-day would exhaust it. A sergeant was 
sent back down the mountain to try to get more, or, if 
not, to get tidings. The next day it was supposed the 
fight would be renewed; and the men waited, alert, 
eager, vigilant, their spirits high, their appetite for vic- 
tory whetted by success. The men were at their break- 
fast, or what went for breakfast, scanty at all times, now 
doubly so, hardly deserving the title of a meal, so poor 
and small were the portions of corn-meal, cooked in their 
frying-pans, which went for their rations, when the 
sound of artillery below broke on the quiet air. They 
were on their feet in an instant and at the guns, crowd- 
ing upon the breastwork to look or to listen; for the 
road, as far as could be seen down the mountain, w^as 
empty except for their own picket, and lay as quiet as if 
sleeping in the balmy air. And yet volley after volley of 
artillery came rolling up the mountain. ^^Tiat could it 
mean? That the rest of their force had come up and 
was engaged with that at the foot of the mountain ? The 
Colonel decided to be ready to go and help them ; to fall 
on the enemy in the rear; perhaps they might capture 
the entire force. It seemed the natural thing to do, 
and the guns were limbered up in an incredibly short 
time, and a roadway made through the intrenchment, 
the men working like beavers under the excitement. 
Before they had left the redoubt, however, the vedettes 
sent out returned and reported that there was no engage- 
ment going on, and the firing below seemed to be only 
practising. There was quite a stir in the camp below; 
but they had not even broken camp. This was mys- 
terious. Perhaps it meant that they had received rein- 
forcements, but it was a queer way of showing it. The 



124 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

old Colonel sighed as he thought of the good ammuni- 
tion they could throw away down there, and of his 
empty limber-chests. It was necessary to be on the alert, 
however; the guns were run back into their old places, 
and the horses picketed once more back among the 
trees. Meantime he sent another messenger back, 
this time a courier, for he had but one commissioned 
officer left, and the picket below was strengthened. 

The morning passed and no one came; the day wore 
on and still no advance was made by the force below. It 
was suggested that the enemy had left; he had, at least, 
gotten enough of that battery. A reconnoissance, how- 
ever, showed that he was still encamped at the foot 
of the mountain. It was conjectured that he was trying 
to find a way around to take them in the rear, or to cross 
the ridge by the foot-path. Preparation was made to 
guard more closely the mountain-path across the spur, 
and a detachment w^as sent up to strengthen the picket 
there. The waiting told on the men and they grew 
bored and restless. They gathered about the guns in 
groups and talked; talked of each piece some, but not 
with the old spirit and vim; the loneliness of the moun- 
tain seemed to oppress them; the mountains stretching 
up so brown and gray on one side of them, and so brown 
and gray on the other, with their bare, dark forests 
soughing from time to time as the wind swept up the 
pass. The minds of the men seemed to go back to the 
time when they were not so alone, but were part of a 
great and busy army, and some of them fell to talking of 
the past, and the battles they had figured in, and of the 
comrades they had lost. They told them off in a slow 
and colorless way, as if it were all part of the past as 
much as the dead they named. One hundred and nine- 
teen times they had been in action. Only seventeen 



THE BURIAL OF THE GUNS 125 

men were left of the eighty odd who had first enHsted 
in the battery, and of these four were at home crippled 
for life. Two of the oldest men had been among the 
half-dozen who had fallen in the skirmish just the day 
before. It looked tolerably hard to be killed that way 
after passing for four years through such battles as they 
had been in; and both had wives and children at home, 
too, and not a cent to leave them to their names. They 
agreed calmly that they'd have to "sort of look after 
them a little" if they ever got home. These were 
some of the things they talked about as they pulled 
their old worn coats about them, stuffed their thin, 
weather-stained hands in their ragged pockets to warm 
them, and squatted down under the breastwork to keep 
a little out of the wind. One thing they talked about 
a good deal was something to eat. They described 
meals they had had at one time or another as personal 
adventures, and discussed the chances of securing others 
in the future as if they were prizes of fortune. One 
listening and seeing their thin, worn faces and their 
wasted frames might have supposed they were starving, 
and they were, but they did not say so. 

Toward the middle of the afternoon there was a 
sudden excitement in the camp. A dozen men saw them 
at the same time: a squad of three men down the road 
at the farthest turn, past their picket; but an ad- 
vancing column could not have created as much ex- 
citement, for the middle man carried a white flag. In a 
minute every man in the battery was on the breastwork. 
What could it mean ! It was a long way off, nearly half 
a mile, and the flag was small: possibly only a pocket- 
handkerchief or a napkin ; but it was held aloft as a flag 
unmistakably. A hundred conjectures were indulged in. 
Was it a summons to surrender? A request for an 



126 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

armistice for some purpose ? Or was it a trick to ascer- 
tain their number and position ? Some held one view, 
some another. Some extreme ones thought a shot ought 
to be fired over them to warn them not to come on; no 
flags of truce were wanted. The old Colonel, who had 
walked to the edge of the plateau outside the redoubt 
and taken his position where he could study the advanc- 
ing figures with his field-glass, had not spoken. The 
lieutenant who was next in command to him had walked 
out after him, and stood near him, from time to time 
dropping a word or two of conjecture in a half-audible 
tone; but the Colonel had not answered a word; per- 
haps none was expected. Suddenly he took his glass 
down, and gave an order to the lieutenant: ''Take 
two men and meet them at the turn yonder; learn their 
business; and act as your best judgment advises. If 
necessary to bring the messenger farther, bring only the 
officer who has the flag, and halt him at that rock yon- 
der, where I will join him." The tone was as placid as 
if such an occurrence came every day. Two minutes 
later the lieutenant was on his way down the mountain 
and the Colonel had the men in ranks. His face was as 
grave and his manner as quiet as usual, neither more nor 
less so. The men were in a state of suppressed excite- 
ment. Having put them in charge of the second sergeant, 
the Colonel returned to the breastwork. The two 
oflBcers were slowly ascending the hill, side by side, the 
bearer of the flag, now easily distinguishable in his 
jaunty uniform as a captain of cavalry, talking, and the 
lieutenant in faded gray, faced with yet more faded red, 
walking beside him with a face white even at that dis- 
tance, and lips shut as though they would never open 
again. They halted at the big bowlder which the Colonel 
had indicated, and the lieutenant, having saluted cere- 



THE BURIAL OF THE GUNS 127 

moniously, turned to come up to the camp; the Colonel, 
however, went down to meet him. The two men met, 
but there was no spoken question; if the Colonel in- 
quired it was only with the eyes. The lieutenant spoke, 
however. '' He says," he began and stopped, then began 
again — ''he says. General Lee — " again he choked, 
then he blurted out, "I believe it is all a lie — a damned 
lie." 

"Not dead ? Not killed ?" said the Colonel, quickly. 

"No, not so bad as that; surrendered: surrendered 
his entire army at Appomattox day before yesterday. 
I believe it is all a damned lie," he broke out again, 
as if the hot denial relieved him. The Colonel simply 
turned away his face and stepped a pace or two off, 
and the two men stood motionless back to back for 
more than a minute. Then the Colonel stirred. 

"Shall I go back with you?" the lieutenant asked, 
huskily. 

The Colonel did not answer immediately. Then he 
said: "No, go back to camp and await my return." 
He said nothing about not speaking of the report. He 
knew it was not needed. Then he went down the hill 
slowly alone, while the lieutenant went up to the camp. 

The interview between the two officers beside the 
bowlder was not a long one. It consisted of a brief 
statement by the Federal envoy of the fact of Lee's sur- 
render two days before near Appomattox Court-House, 
with the sources of his information, coupled with a for- 
mal demand on the Colonel for his surrender. To this 
the Colonel replied that he had been detached and put 
under command of another officer for a specific purpose, 
and that his orders were to hold that pass, which he 
should do until he was instructed otherwise by his su- 
perior in command. With that they parted, ceremoni- 



128 SOUTHERN PROSE Ax\D POETRY 

ously, the Federal captain returning to where he had 
left his horse in charge of his companions a little below, 
and the old Colonel coming slowly up the hill to camp. 
The men were at once set to work to meet any attack 
which might be made. They knew that the message 
was of grave import, but not of how grave. They 
thought it meant that another attack would be made 
immediately, and they sprang to their work with re- 
newed vigor, and a zeal as fresh as if it were but the 
beginning and not the end. 

The time wore on, however, and there was no demon- 
stration below, though hour after hour it was expected 
and even hoped for. Just as the sun sank into a bed of 
blue cloud a horseman was seen coming up the darkened 
mountain from the eastward side, and in a little while 
practised eyes reported him one of their own men — the 
sergeant who had been sent back the day before for 
ammunition. He was alone, and had something white 
before him on his horse — it could not be the ammunition ; 
but perhaps that might be coming on behind. Every 
step of his jaded horse was anxiously watched. As he 
drew near, the lieutenant, after a word with the Colonel, 
walked down to meet him, and there was a short colloquy 
in the muddy road; then they came back together and 
slowly entered the camp, the sergeant handing down 
a bag of corn which he had got somewhere below, with 
the grim remark to his comrades, ''There's your ra- 
tions," and going at once to the Colonel's camp-fire, a 
little to one side among the trees, where the Colonel 
awaited him. A long conference was held, and then the 
sergeant left to take his luck with his mess, who were 
already parching the corn he had brought for their sup- 
per, while the lieutenant made the round of the camp; 
leaving the Colonel seated alone on a log by his camp- 



THE BURIAL OF THE GUNS 129 

fire. He sat without moving, hardly stirring until the 
lieutenant returned from his round. A minute later the 
men were called from the guns and made to fall into 
line. They were silent, tremulous with suppressed ex- 
citement; the most sun-burned and weather-stained of 
them a little pale; the meanest, raggedest, and most 
insignificant not unimpressive in the deep and solemn 
silence with which they stood, their eyes fastened on the 
Colonel, waiting for him to speak. He stepped out in 
front of them, slowly ran his eye along the irregular line, 
up and down, taking in every man in his glance, resting 
on some longer than on others, the older men, then 
dropped them to the ground, and then suddenly, as if 
with an effort, began to speak. His voice had a some- 
what metallic sound, as if it were restrained; but it 
was otherwise the ordinary tone of command. It was not 
much that he said : simply that it had become his duty 
to acquaint them with the information vv^hich he had 
received: that General Lee had surrendered two days 
before at Appomattox Court-House, yielding to over- 
whelming numbers; that this afternoon when he had 
first heard the report he had questioned its truth, but 
that it had been confirmed by one of their own men, 
and no longer admitted of doubt; that the rest of their 
own force, it was learned, had been captured, or had 
disbanded, and the enemy was now on both sides of 
the mountain; that a demand had been made on him 
that morning to surrender too; but that he had orders 
which he felt held good until they were countermanded, 
and he had declined. Later intelligence satisfied him 
that to attempt to hold out further would be useless, and 
would involve needless waste of life; he had determined, 
therefore, not to attempt to hold their position longer; 
but to lead them out, if possible, so as to avoid being 



130 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

made prisoners and enable them to reach home sooner 
and aid their famiHes. His orders were not to let his 
guns fall into the enemy's hands, and he should take 
the only step possible to prevent it. In fifty minutes 
he should call the battery into line once more, and roll 
the guns over the cliff into the river, and immediately 
afterward, leaving the wagons there, he would try to 
lead them across the mountain, and as far as they could 
go in a body without being liable to capture, and then 
he should disband them, and his responsibility for them 
would end. As it was necessary to make some prepara- 
tions, he would now dismiss them to prepare any rations 
they might have and get ready to march. 

All this was in the formal manner of a common 
order of the day; and the old Colonel had spoken in 
measured sentences, with little feeling in his voice. Not 
a man in the line had uttered a word after the first 
sound, half exclamation, half groan, which had burst 
from them at the announcement of Lee's surrender. 
After that thev had stood in their tracks like rooted 
trees, as motionless as those on the mountain behind 
them, their eyes fixed on their commander, and only 
the quick heaving up and down the dark line, as of 
horses over-laboring, told of the emotion which was 
shaking them. The Colonel, as he ended, half turned 
to his subordinate ofiicer at the end of the dim line, as 
though he were about to turn the company over to him 
to be dismissed; then faced the line again, and taking 
a step nearer, with a sudden movement of his hands 
toward the men as though he would have stretched 
them out to them, began again: 

"Men," he said, and his voice changed at the word, 
and sounded like a father's or a brother's, ''my men, 
I cannot let you go so. We were neighbors when the 



THE BURIAL OF THE GUNS 131 

war began — many of us, and some not here to-night; 
we have been more since then — comrades, brothers in 
arms; we have all stood for one thing — for Virginia 
and the South; we have all done our duty — tried to do 
our duty; we have fought a good fight, and now it seems 
to be over, and we have been overwhelmed by num- 
bers, not whipped — and we are going home. We have 
the future before us — we don't know just what it will 
bring, but we can stand a good deal. We have proved 
it. Upon us depends the South in the future as in the 
past. You have done your duty in the past, you will 
not fail in the future. Go home and be honest, 
brave, self-sacrificing. God-fearing citizens, as you have 
been soldiers, and you need not fear for Virginia and 
the South. The war may be over; but you will ever 
be ready to serve your country. The end may not be 
as we wanted it, prayed for it, fought for it; but we 
can trust God; the end in the end will be the best 
that could be; even if the South is not free she will 
be better and stronger that she fought as she did. Go 
home and bring up your children to love her, and 
though you may have nothing else to leave them, you 
can leave them the heritage that they are sons of men 
who were in Lee's army." 

He stopped, looked up and down the ranks again, 
which had instinctively crowded together and drawn 
around him in a half-circle; made a sign to the lieuten- 
ant to take charge, and turned abruptly on his heel to 
walk away. But as he did so, the long pent-up emotion 
burst forth. With a wild cheer the men seized him, 
crowding around and hugging him, as with protesta- 
tions, prayers, sobs, oaths — broken, incoherent, inar- 
ticulate — they swore to be faithful, to live loyal forever 
to the South, to him, to Lee. Many of them cried like 



132 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

children; others offered to go down and have one more 
battle on the plain. The old Colonel soothed them, 
and quieted their excitement, and then gave a com- 
mand about the preparations to be made. This called 
them to order at once; and in a few minutes the camp 
was as orderly and quiet as usual: the fires were re- 
plenished; the scanty stores were being overhauled; the 
place was selected, and being got ready to roll the guns 
over the cliff; the camp was being ransacked for such 
articles as could be carried, and all preparations w^ere 
being hastily made for their march. 

The old Colonel, having completed his arrangements, 
sat down by his camp-fire with paper and pencil, and 
began to \\Tite; and as the men finished their work they 
gathered about in groups, at first around their camp- 
fires, but shortly strolled over to where the guns still 
stood at the breastwork, black and vague in the dark- 
ness. Soon they were all assembled about the guns. 
One after another they visited, closing around it and 
handling it from muzzle to trail as a man might a 
horse to try its sinew and bone, or a child to feel its 
fineness and warmth. They were for the most part 
silent, and when any sound came through the dusk 
from them to the oflBcers at their fire, it was mur- 
murous and fitful as of men speaking low and 
brokenly. There was no sound of the noisy con- 
troversy which was generally heard, the give-and-take 
of the camp-fire, the firing backward and forward that 
went on on the march; if a compliment was paid a gun 
by one of its special detachment, it was accepted by the 
others; in fact, those who had generally run it down 
now seemed most anxious to accord the piece praise. 
Presently a small number of the men returned to a 
camp-fire, and, building it up, seated themselves about 



THE BURIAL OF THE GUNS 133 

it, gathering closer and closer together until they were 
in a little knot. One of them appeared to be writing, 
while two or three took up flaming chunks from the fire 
and held them as torches for him to see by. In time the 
entire company assembled about them, standing in 
respectful silence, broken only occasionally by a reply 
from one or another to some question from the scribe. 
After a little there was a sound of a roll-call, and reading 
and a short colloquy followed, and then two men, one 
with a paper in his hand, approached the fire beside 
which the officers sat still engaged. 

"What is it, Harris?" said the Colonel to the man 
with the paper, who bore remnants of the chevrons of a 
sergeant on his stained and faded jacket. 

**If you please, sir," he said, with a salute, "we have 
been talking it over, and we'd like this paper to go in 
along with that you're writing." He held it out to the 
lieutenant, who was the nearer and had reached forward 
to take it. "We s'pose you're a-goin' to bury it with the 
guns," he said, hesitatingly, as he handed it over. 

"What is it?" asked the Colonel, shading his eyes 
with his hands. 

"It's just a little list we made out in and among us," 
he said, "with a few things we'd like to put in, so's if 
any one ever hauls 'em out they'll find it there to tell 
what the old battery was, and if they don't, it'll be in one 
of 'em down thar till judgment, an' it'll sort of ease our 
minds a bit." He stopped and waited as a man who 
had delivered his message. The old Colonel had risen 
and taken the paper, and now held it with a firm grasp, 
as if it might blow away with the rising wind. He did 
not say a word, but his hand shook a little as he pro- 
ceeded to fold it carefully, and there was a burning gleam 
in his deep-set eyes, back under his bushy, gray brows. 



134 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

''Will you sort of look over it, sir, if you think it's 
worth while ? We was in a sort of hurry and we had to 
put it down just as we come to it; we didn't have time 
to pick our ammunition; and it ain't written the best in 
the world, nohow." He waited again, and the Colonel 
opened the paper and glanced down at it mechanically. 
It contained first a roster, headed by the list of six guns, 
named by name: ''Matthew," "Mark," "Luke," and 
"John," "The Eagle," and "The Cat"; then of the 
men, beginning with the heading: 

" Those Killed." 

Then had followed "Those wounded," but this was 
marked out. Then came a roster of the company when 
it first entered service; then of those who had joined 
afterward; then of those who were present now. At 
the end of all there was this statement, not very well 
written, nor wholly accurately spelt: 

"To Whom it may Concern: We, the above mem- 
bers of the old battery known, etc., of six guns, named, 
etc., commanded by the said Col. etc., left on the 11th 
day of April, 1865, have made out this roll of the battery, 
them as is gone and them as is left, to bury with the 
guns which the same we bury this night. W'^e're all 
volunteers, every man; we joined the army at the be- 
ginning of the war, and we've stuck through to the end; 
sometimes we ain't had much to eat, and sometimes we 
ain't had nothin', but we've fought the best we could 
119 battles and skirmishes as near as we can make out 
in four years, and never lost a gun. Now we're agoin' 
home. We ainH surrendered; just disbanded, and we 
pledges ourselves to teach our children to love the South 
and General Lee; and to come when we're called any- 
wheres an' anytime, so help us God." 



THE BURIAL OF THE GUNS 135 

There was a dead silence whilst the Colonel read. 

" 'Tain't entirely accurite, sir, in one particular," 
said the sergeant, apologetically; ''but we thought it 
would be playin' it sort o' low down on the Cat if we 
was to say we lost her unless we could tell about gittin' 
of her back, and the way she done since, and we didn't 
have time to do all that." He looked around as if to 
receive the corroboration of the other men, which they 
signified by nods and shuffling. 

The Colonel said it was all right, and the paper should 
go into the guns. 

''If you please, sir, the guns are all loaded," said the 
sergeant; "in and about our last charge, too; and we'd 
like to fire 'em off once more, jist for old times' sake to 
remember 'em by, if you don't think no harm could 
come of it?" 

The Colonel reflected a moment and said it might be 
done; they might fire each gun separately as they rolled 
it over, or might get all ready and fire together, and then 
roll them over, whichever they wished. This was sat- 
isfactory. 

The men were then ordered to prepare to march im- 
mediately, and withdrew for the purpose. The pickets 
were called in. In a short time they were ready, horses 
and all, just as they would have been to march ordinarily, 
except that the wagons and caissons were packed over 
in one corner by the camp with the harness hung on 
poles beside them, and the guns stood in their old places 
at the breastwork ready to defend the pass. The em- 
bers of the sinking camp-fires threw a faint light on 
them standing so still and silent. The old Colonel took 
his place, and at a command from him in a somewhat 
low voice, the men, except a detail left to hold the horses, 
moved into company-front facing the guns. Not a 



136 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

word was spoken, except the words of command. At 
the order each detachment went to its gun; the guns 
were run back and the men with their own hands ran 
them up on the edge of the perpendicular bluff above 
the river, where, sheer below, its waters washed its 
base, as if to face an enemy on the black mountain the 
other side. The pieces stood ranged in the order in 
which they had so often stood in battle, and the gray, 
thin fog rising slowly and silently from the river deep 
down between the cliffs, and wreathing the mountain- 
side above, might have been the smoke from some un- 
earthly battle fought in the dim pass by ghostly guns, 
yet posted there in the darkness, manned by phan- 
tom gunners, while phantom horses stood behind, lit 
vaguely up by phantom camp-fires. At the given word 
the laniards were pulled together, and together as one 
the six black guns, belching flame and lead, roared their 
last challenge on the misty night, sending a deadly hail 
of shot and shell, tearing the trees and splintering the 
rocks of the farther side, and sending the thunder rever- 
berating through the pass and down the mountain, 
startling from its slumber the sleeping camp on the 
hills below, and driving the browsing deer and the 
prowling mountain-fox in terror up the mountain. 

There was silence among the men about the guns 
for one brief instant and then such a cheer burst forth 
as had never broken from them even in battle: cheer 
on cheer, the long, wild, old familiar rebel yell for the 
guns they had fought with and loved. 

The noise had not died away and the men behind 
were still trying to quiet the frightened horses when the 
sergeant, the same who had written, received from the 
hand of the Colonel a long package or roll which con- 
tained the records of the battery furnished by the men 



THE BURIAL OF THE GUNS 137 

and by the Colonel himself, securely wrapped to make 
them water-tight, and it was rammed down the yet 
warm throat of the nearest gun: the Cat, and then the 
gun was tamped to the muzzle to make her water-tight, 
and, like her sisters, was spiked, and her vent tamped 
tight. All this took but a minute, and the next instant 
the guns were run up once more to the edge of the cliff; 
and the men stood by them with their hands still on them. 
A deadly silence fell on the men, and even the horses 
behind seemed to feel the spell. There was a long pause 
in which not a breath was heard from any man, and 
the soughing^ of the tree-tops above and the rushing of 
the rapids below were the only sounds. They seemed 
to come from far, very far away. Then the Colonel said, 
quietly, "Let them go, and God be our helper. Amen." 
There was the noise in the darkness of trampling and 
scraping on the cliff-top for a second; the sound as of 
men straining hard together, and then with a pant it 
ceased all at once, and the men held their breath to hear. 
One second of utter silence; then one prolonged, deep, 
resounding splash sending up a great mass of white foam 
as the brass-pieces together plunged into the dark water 
below, and then the soughing of the trees and the mur- 
mur of the river came again with painful distinctness. 
It was full ten minutes before the Colonel spoke, though 
there were other sounds enough in the darkness, and 
some of the men, as the dark, outstretched bodies showed, 
were lying on the ground flat on their faces. Then the 
Colonel gave the command to fall in in the same quiet, 
grave tone he had used all night. The line fell in, the 
men getting to their horses and mounting in silence; 
the Colonel put himself at their head and gave the order 
of march, and the dark line turned in the darkness^ 

^ Sighing. 



138 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

crossed the little plateau between the smouldering camp- 
fires and the spectral caissons with the harness hang- 
ing beside them, and slowly entered the dim charcoal- 
burner's track. Not a word was spoken as they moved 
off. They might all have been phantoms. Only, the 
sergeant in the rear, as he crossed the little breastwork 
which ran along the upper side and marked the boun- 
dary of the little camp, half turned and glanced at the 
dying fires, the low, newly made mounds in the corner, 
the abandoned caissons, and the empty redoubt, and 
said, slowly, in a low voice to himself, 
*' Well, by God!" 



FREE JOE AND THE REST OF THE 

WORLDS 

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 

The name of Free Joe strikes humorously upon the 
ear of memory. It is impossible to say why, for he 
was the humblest, the simplest, and the most serious 
of all God's living creatures, sadly lacking in all those 
elements that suggest the humorous. It is certain, more- 
over, that in 1850 the sober-minded citizens of the little 
Georgian village of Hillsborough were not inclined to 
take a humorous view of Free Joe, and neither his name 
nor his presence provoked a smile. He was a black 
atom, drifting hither and thither without an owner, 
blown about by all the winds of circumstances and given 
over to shiftlessness. 

The problems of one generation are the paradoxes 
of a succeeding one, particularly if war, or some such 
incident, intervenes to clarify the atmosphere and 
strengthen the understanding. Thus, in 1850, Free 
Joe represented not only a problem of large concern, 
but, in the watchful eyes of Hillsborough, he was the 

^This story is significant as a presentation of slavery from 
another point of view than that found in Mr. Page's stories, or 
in the Uncle Remus stories. In answer to criticism of this story, 
Mr. Harris said : " What does it matter whether I am Northern 
or Southern if I am true to truth and true to that larger truth, 
my own true self ? " 

From Free Joe and Other Georgian Sketches. Published by Charles 
Scribner's Sons. 

139 



140 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

embodiment of that vague and mysterious danger that 
seemed to be forever hirking on the outskirts of slavery, 
ready to sound a shrill and ghostly signal in the im- 
penetrable swamps, and steal forth under the mid- 
night stars to murder, rapine, and pillage, — a danger 
always threatening, and yet never assuming shape; 
intangible, and yet real; impossible, and yet not improb- 
able. Across the serene and smiling front of safety, 
the pale outlines of the awful shadow of insurrection 
sometimes fell. With this invisible panorama as back- 
ground, it was natural that the figure of Free Joe, sim- 
ple and humble as it was, should assume undue pro- 
portions. Go where he would, do what he might, he 
could not escape the finger of observation and the kin- 
dling eye of suspicion. His lightest words were noted, 
his slightest actions marked. 

Under all the circumstances it was natural that his 
peculiar condition should reflect itself in his habits and 
manners. The slaves laughed loudly day by day, but 
Free Joe rarely laughed. The slaves sang at their work 
and danced at their frolics, but no one ever heard Free 
Joe sing or saw him dance. There was something 
painfully plaintive and appealing in his attitude, some- 
thing touching in his anxiety to please. He was of the 
friendliest nature, and seemed to be delighted w^hen he 
could amuse the little children who had made a play- 
ground of the public square. At times he would please 
them by making his little dog Dan perform all sorts of 
curious tricks, or he would tell them quaint stories of 
the beasts of the field and birds of the air; and frequently 
he was coaxed into relating the story of his own freedom. 
The story w^as brief, but tragical. 

In the year of our Lord 1840, when a negro -specula- 
tor of a sportive turn of mind reached the little village 



FREE JOE AND THE REST OF THE WORLD 141 

of Hillsborough on his way to the Mississippi region, 
with a caravan of likely negroes of both sexes, he found 
much to interest him. In that day and at that time 
there were a number of young men in the village who 
had not bound themselves over to repentance for the 
various misdeeds of the flesh. To these young men the 
negro-speculator (Major Frampton was his name) pro- 
ceeded to address himself. He was a Virginian, he de- 
clared; and, to prove the statement, he referred all the 
festively inclined young men of Hillsborough to a barrel 
of peach-brandy in one of his covered wagons. In the 
minds of these young men there was less doubt in regard 
to the age and quality of the brandy than there was in re- 
gard to the negro-trader's birthplace. Major Frampton 
might or might not have been born in the Old Domin- 
ion — that was a matter for consideration and inquiry — 
but there could be no question as to the mellow pun- 
gency of the peach-brandy. 

In his own estimation. Major Frampton was one 
of the most accomplished of men. He had summered 
at the Virginia Springs; he had been to Philadelphia, 
to Washington, to Richmond, to Lynchburg, and to 
Charleston, and had accumulated a great deal of ex- 
perience which he found useful. Hillsborough was hid 
in the woods of middle Georgia, and its general aspect 
of innocence impressed him. He looked on the young 
men who had shown their readiness to test his peach- 
brandy, as overgrown country boys who needed to be 
introduced to some of the arts and sciences he had at 
his command. Thereupon the Major pitched his tents, 
figuratively speaking, and became, for the time being, 
a part and parcel of the innocence that characterized 
Hillsborough. A wiser man would doubtless have made 
the same mistake. 



142 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

The little village possessed advantages and seemed 
to be providentially arranged to fit the various enter- 
prises that Major Frampton had in view. There was 
the auction-block in front of the stuccoed court-house, 
if he desired to dispose of a few of his negroes; there 
was a quarter-track, laid out to his hand and in excellent 
order, if he chose to enjoy the pleasures of horse-racing; 
there were secluded pine thickets within easy reach, 
if he desired to indulge in the exciting pastime of cock- 
fighting; and various lonely and unoccupied rooms in 
the second story of the tavern, if he cared to challenge the 
chances of dice or cards. 

Major Frampton tried them all with varying luck, 
until he began his famous game of poker with Judge 
Alfred Wellington, a stately gentleman with a flow- 
ing white beard and mild blue eyes that gave him the 
appearance of a benevolent patriarch. The history of 
the game in which Major Frampton and Judge Alfred 
Wellington took part is something more than a tradition 
in Hillsborough, for there are still living three or four 
who sat around the table and watched its progress. It 
is said that at various stages of the game Major Framp- 
ton would destroy the cards with which they were play- 
ing, and send for a new pack, but the result was always 
the same. The mild blue eyes of Judge Wellington, 
with few exceptions, continued to overlook ^'hands'' 
that were invincible — a habit they had acquired during 
a long and arduous course of training from Saratoga^ 
to New Orleans. Major Frampton lost his money, his 
horses, his wagons, and all his negroes but one, his 
body-servant. When his misfortune had reached this 
limit, the major adjourned the game. The sun was 

^ A famous watering-place before the war, but not so ex- 
clusive now as then. 



FREE JOE AND THE REST OP THE WORLD 143 

shining brightly, and all nature was cheerful. It is said 
that the major also seemed to be cheerful. However 
this may be, he visited the court-house and executed 
the papers that gave his body-servant his freedom. 
This being done, Major Frampton sauntered into a 
convenient pine thicket, and blew out his brains. 

The negro thus freed came to be known as Free Joe. 
Compelled, under the law, to choose a guardian, he 
chose Judge Wellington, chiefly because his wife Lu- 
cinda was among the negroes won from Major Framp- 
ton. For several years Free Joe had what may be 
called a jovial time. His wife Lucinda was well pro- 
vided for, and he found it a comparatively easy matter 
to provide for himself; so that, taking all the circum- 
stances into consideration, it is not matter for astonish- 
ment that he became somewhat shiftless. 

When Judge Wellington died. Free Joe's troubles 
began. The judge's negroes, including Lucinda, went 
to his half-brother, a man named Calderwood, who was 
a hard master and a rough customer generally — a man 
of many eccentricities of mind and character. His 
neighbors had a habit of alluding to him as "Old 
Spite"; and the name seemed to fit him so completely 
that he was known far and near as '' Spite" Calderwood. 
He probably enjoyed the distinction the name gave him, 
at any rate he never resented it, and it was not often 
that he missed an opportunity to show that he deserved 
it. Calderwood 's place was two or three miles from the 
village of Hillsborough, and Free Joe visited his wife 
twice a week, Wednesday and Saturday nights. 

One Sunday morning he was sitting in front of Lu- 
cinda's cabin, when Calderwood happened to pass that 
way. 

''Howdy, marster?" said Free Joe, taking off his hat. 



144 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

**Who are you?" exclaimed Calderwood abruptly, 
halting and staring at the negro. 

^'I'm name' Joe, marster, I'm Lucindy's ole man." 

''Who do you belong to?" 

"Marse John Evans is my gyardeen, marster." 

''Big name — gyardeen. Show your pass." 

Free Joe produced the document, and Calderwood 
read it aloud slowly, as if he found it difhcult to get at 
the meaning: 

" To ivhom it may concern: This is to certify that 
the boy Joe Frampton has my permission to visit his 
wife LiLcinda.'' 

This was dated at Hillsborough, and signed ''John 
W. Evans.'' 

Calderwood read it twice, and then looked at Free 
Joe, elevating his eyebrows, and showing his discolored 
teeth. 

" Some mighty big words in that there. Evans owns 
this place, I reckon. When's he comin' down to take 
hold?" 

Free Joe fumbled with his hat. He was badly 
frightened. 

"Lucindy say she speck you wouldn't min' my 
comin', long ez I behave, marster." 

Calderwood tore the pass in pieces and flung it away. 
"Don't want no free niggers 'round here," he ex- 
claimed. "There's the big road. It'll carry you to 
town. Don't let me catch you here no more. Now, 
mind what I tell you." 

Free Joe presented a shabby spectacle as he moved 
off with his little dog Dan slinking at his heels. It 
should be said in behalf of Dan, however, that his bris- 
tles were up, and that he looked back and growled. It 
may be that the dog had the advantage of insignificance, 



FREE JOE AND THE REST OF THE WORLD 145 

but it is difficult to conceive how a dog bold enough to 
raise his bristles under Calderwood's very eyes could 
be as insignificant as Free Joe. But both the negro and 
his little dog seemed to give a new and more dismal as- 
pect to forlornness as they turned into the road and went 
toward Hillsborough. 

After this incident Free Joe seemed to have clear 
ideas concerning his peculiar condition. He realized 
the fact that though he was free he was more helpless 
than any slave. Having no owner, every man was his 
master. He knew that he was the object of suspicion, 
and therefore all his slender resources (ah ! how pitifully 
slender they were!) were devoted to winning, not kind- 
ness and appreciation, but toleration; all his efforts were 
in the direction of mitigating the circumstances that 
tended to make his condition so much worse than that 
of the negroes around him — negroes who had friends 
because they had masters. 

So far as his own race was concerned. Free Joe 
was an exile. If the slaves secretly envied him his free- 
dom (which is to be doubted, considering his miserable 
condition), they openly despised him, and lost no op- 
portunity to treat him with contumely. Perhaps this 
was in some measure the result of the attitude which 
Free Joe chose to maintain toward them. No doubt 
his instinct taught him that to hold himself aloof from 
the slaves would be to invite from the whites the tolera- 
tion which he coveted, and without which even his miser- 
able condition would be rendered more miserable still. 

His greatest trouble was the fact that he was not 
allowed to visit his wife; but he soon found a way out 
of this difficulty. After he had been ordered away 
from the Calderwood place, he was in the habit of wan- 
dering as far in that direction as prudence would per- 



146 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

mit. Near the Calderwood place, but not on Calder- 
wood's land, lived an old man named iNIicajah Staley 
and his sister Becky Staley. These people were old 
and very poor. Old Micajah had a palsied arm and 
hand; but, in spite of this, he managed to earn a pre- 
carious living with his turning-lathe. 

When he was a slave Free Joe would have scorned 
these representatives of a class known as poor white 
trash, but now he found them sympathetic and helpful 
in various ways. From the back door of the cabin he 
could hear the Calderwood negroes singing at night, 
and he fancied he could distinguish Lucinda's shrill 
treble rising above the other voices. A large poplar 
grew in the woods some distance from the Staley cabin, 
and at the foot of this tree Free Joe would sit for hours 
with his face turned toward Calderwood's. His little 
dog Dan would curl up in the leaves near by, and the 
two seemed to be as comfortable as possible. 

One Saturday afternoon Free Joe, sitting at the foot 
of this friendly poplar, fell asleep. How long he slept 
he could not tell; but when he awoke little Dan was 
licking his face, the moon w^as shining brightly, and 
Lucinda his wife stood before him laughing. The dog 
seeing that Free Joe was asleep, had grown somewhat 
impatient, and he concluded to make an excursion to the 
Calderwood place on his own account. Lucinda was 
inclined to give the incident a twist in the direction of 
superstition. 

"I'z settin' down front er de fireplace," she said, 
"cookin' me some meat, w'en all of a sudden I year 
sumpin at de do' — scratch, scratch. I tuck'n tu'n de 
meat over, en make out I aint year it. Bimeby it come 
dar 'gin — scratch, scratch. I up en open de do', I did, 
en, bless de Lord! dar wuz little Dan, en it look hke ter 



FREE JOE AND THE REST OF THE WORLD 147 

me dat his ribs done grown tergeer. I gin 'im some 
bread, en den, w'en he start out, I tuck'n foller 'im, 
kaze I say ter myse'f, maybe my nigger man mought be 
some 'rs 'roun'. Dat are Httle dog got sense, mon." 

Free Joe laughed and dropped his hand Hghtly on 
Dan's head. For a long time after that, he had no 
difficulty in seeing his wife. He had only to sit by the 
poplar tree until little Dan could run and fetch her. 
But after a while the other negroes discovered that 
Lucinda was meeting Free Joe in the woods, and in- 
formation of the fact soon reached Calderwood's ears. 
He said nothing; but one day he put Lucinda in his 
buggy, and carried her to Macon, sixty miles away. 
He carried her to Macon, and came back without her; 
and nobody in or around Hillsborough, or in that sec- 
tion, ever saw her again. 

For many a night after that Free Joe sat in the woods 
and waited. Little Dan would run merrily off and be 
gone a long time, but he always came back without 
Lucinda. This happened over and over again. The 
" willis-whistlers " would call and call, like phantom 
huntsmen wandering on a far-off shore; the screech- 
owl would shake and shiver in the depths of the woods ; 
the night-hawks, sweeping by on noiseless wings, would 
snap their beaks as though they enjoyed the huge joke 
of which Free Joe and little Dan were the victims ; and 
the whip-poor-wills would cry to each other through the 
gloom. Each night seemed to be lonelier than the pre- 
ceding, but Free Joe's patience was proof against lone- 
liness. There came a time, however, when little Dan 
refused to go after Lucinda. When Free Joe motioned 
him in the direction of the Calderwood place, he would 
simply move about uneasily and whine; then he would 
curl up in the leaves and make himself comfortable. 



148 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

One night, instead of going to the poplar-tree to wait 
for Lucinda, Free Joe went to the Staley cabin, and, in 
order to make his welcome good, as he expressed it, he 
carried with him an armful of fat-pine splinters. Miss 
Becky Staley had a great reputation in those parts as a 
fortune-teller, and the school-girls, as well as older peo- 
ple, often tested her powers in that direction, some in 
jest and some in earnest. Free Joe placed his humble 
offering of light-wood in the chimney-corner, and then 
seated himself on the steps, dropping his hat on the 
ground outside. 

''Miss Becky," he said presently, "whar in de name 
er gracious you reckon Lucindy is?" 

''Well, the Lord he'p the nigger!" exclaimed Miss 
Becky, in a tone that seemed to reproduce, by some 
curious agreement of sight with sound, her general as- 
pect of peakedness. "Well, the Lord he'p the nigger! 
haint you been a-seein' her all this blessed time ? She's 
over at old Spite Calderwood's, if she's anywhere, I 
reckon." 

"No'm, dat I aint. Miss Becky. I aint seen Lu- 
cindy in now gwine on mighty nigh a mont'." 

"Well, it haint a-gwine to hurt you," said Miss 
Becky, somewhat sharply. "In my day an' time it 
wuz allers took to be a bad sign when niggers got to 
honeyin' 'roun' an' gwine on." 

"Yessum," said Free Joe, cheerfully assenting to 
the proposition — "yessum, dat's so, but me an' my 
ole 'oman, we 'uz raise tergeer, en dey aint bin many 
days w'en we 'uz 'way fum one 'n'er like we is now." 

"Maybe she's up an' took up wi' some un else," 
said Micajah Staley from the corner. "You know 
what the sayin' is, 'New master, new nigger.' " 

"Dat's so, dat's de sayin', but taint wid my ole 



FREE JOE AND THE REST OF THE WORLD 149 

*oman like 'tis wid yuther niggers. Me en her wuz 
des natally raise up tergeer. Dey's lots likelier nig- 
gers dan w'at I is," said Free Joe, viewing his shab- 
biness with a critical eye, "but I know Lucindy mos' 
good ez I does little Dan dar — dat I does." 

There was no reply to this, and Free Joe continued — 

"Miss Becky, I wish you please, ma'am, take en 
run yo' kyards en see sump'n n'er 'bout Lucindy; kaze 
ef she sick, I'm gwine dar. Dey ken take en take me 
up en gimme a stroppin', but I'm gwine dar." 

Miss Becky got her cards, but first she picked up a 
cup, in the bottom of which were some coffee grounds. 
These she whirled slowly round and round, ending 
finally by turning the cup upside down on the hearth 
and allowing it to remain in that position. 

"I'll turn the cup first," said Miss Becky, "and then 
I'll run the cards and see what they say." 

As she shuffled the cards the fire on the hearth burned 
slow, and in its fitful light the gray-haired, thin-featured 
woman seemed to deserve the weird reputation which 
rumor and gossip had given her. She shuffled the cards 
for some moments, gazing intently in the dying fire; 
then, throwing a piece of pine on the coals, she made 
three divisions of the pack, disposing them about in her 
lap. Then she took the first pile, ran the cards slowly 
through her fingers, and studied them carefully. To 
the first she added the second pile. The study of these 
was evidently not satisfactory. She said nothing, but 
frowned heavily; and the frown deepened as she added 
the rest of the cards until the entire fifty-two had passed 
in review before her. Though she frowned, she seemed 
to be deeply interested. Without changing the relative 
position of the cards, she ran them over again. Then 
she threw a larger piece of pine on the fire, shuffled the 



150 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

cards afresh, divided them into three piles, and subjected 
them to the same careful and critical examination. 

''I can't tell the day when I've seed the cards run 
this a-way," she said after a while. "What is an' 
what aint, I'll never tell you ; but I know what the 
cards sez." 

*' Wat does dey say, Miss Becky ? " the negro inquired, 
in a tone the solemnity of which was heightened by its 
eagerness. 

"They er runnin' quare. These here that I'm a- 
lookin' at," said Miss Becky, "they stan' for the past. 
Them there, they er the present; and the t'others, they 
er the future. Here's a bundle" — tapping the ace of 
clubs with her thumb — "an' here's a journey as plain 
as the nose on a man's face. Here's Lucinda" 

"Whar she, Miss Becky?" 

"Here she is — the queen of spades." 

Free Joe grinned. The idea seemed to please him 
immensely. 

"Well, well, well!" he exclaimed. "Ef dat don't 
beat my time! De queen er spades! W'en Lucindy 
year dat hit'll tickle 'er, sho'!" 

Miss Becky continued to run the cards back and forth 
through her fingers. 

"Here's a bundle an' a journey, and here's Lucinda. 
An' here's ole Spite Calderwood." 

She held the cards toward the negro and touched 
the king of clubs. 

"De Lord he'p my soul!" exclaimed Free Joe with 
a chuckle. "De faver's dar. Yesser, dat's him! W'at 
de matter 'long wid all un um, Miss Becky?" 

The old woman added the second pile of cards to the 
first, and then the third, still running them through her 
fingers slowly and critically. By this time the piece of 



FREE JOE AND THE REST OF THE WORLD 151 

pine in the fireplace had wrapped itself in a mantle of 
flame, illuminating the cabin and throwing into strange 
relief the figure of Miss Becky as she sat studying the 
'cards. She frowned ominously at the cards and mum- 
bled a few words to herself. Then she dropped her 
hands in her lap and gazed once more into the fire. 
Her shadow danced and capered on the wall and fioor 
behind her, as if, looking over her shoulder into the 
future, it could behold a rare spectacle. After a while 
she picked up the cup that had been turned on the 
hearth. The coffee grounds, shaken around, presented 
what seemed to be a most intricate map. 

''Here's the journey," said Miss Becky, presently; 
" here's the big road, here's rivers to cross, here's the bun- 
dle to tote." She paused and sighed. ''They haint no 
names writ here, an' what it all means I'll never tell you. 
Cajy, I wish you'd be so good as to han' me my pipe." 

"I haint no hand wi' the kyards," said Cajy, and he 
handed the pipe, " but I reckon I can patch out your mis- 
information, Becky, bekaze the other day, whiles I was 
a-fishin' up Mizzer Perdue's rolling-pin, I hearn a 
rattlin' in the road. I looked out, an' Spite Calderwood 
was a-drivin' by in his buggy, an' thar sot Lucinda by 
him. It'd in-about drapt out er my min'." 

Free Joe sat on the door-sill and fumbled at his hat, 
flinging it from one hand to the other. 

"You haint see um gwine back, is you, Marse Cajy ?" 
he asked after a while. 

"Ef they went back by this road," said Mr. Staley, 
with the air of one who is accustomed to weigh well his 
words, "it must 'a' bin endurin' of the time whiles I 
was asleep, bekaze I haint bin no furder from my shop 
than to yon bed." 

"Wefl, sir I" exclaimed Free Joe in an awed tone. 



152 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

which ]Mr. Staley seemed to regard as a tribute to his 
extraordinary power of statement. 

"Ef it's mv behefs you want," continued the old man, 
"I'll pitch 'em at you fair and free. My beliefs is that* 
Spite Calderwood is gone an' took Lucindy outen the 
country. Bless your heart and soul! when Spite Cal- 
derwood meets the Old Boy in the road they'll be a 
turrible scuffle. You mark what I tell you." 

Free Joe, still fumbling with his hat, rose and leaned 
against the door-facing. He seemed to be embarrassed. 
Presently he said: 

''I speck I better be gittin' 'long. Xex' time I see 
Lucindy, I'm gwine tell 'er w'at Miss Becky say 'bout 
de queen er spades — dat I is. If dat don't tickle 'er, 
dey aint no nigger 'oman never bin tickle'." 

He paused a moment, as though waiting for some 
remark or comment, some confirmation of misfortune, 
or, at the very least, some endorsement of his sugges- 
tion that Lucinda would be greatly pleased to know 
that she had figured as the queen of spades; but neither 
Miss Becky nor her brother said anything. 

''One minnit ridin' in the buggy 'longside er Mars 
Spite, en de nex' highfalutin' 'roun' playin' de queen er 
spades. Mon, deze yer nigger gals gittin' up in de 
pictur's; dey sholy is." 

With a brief "Good-night, Miss Becky, Mars Cajy," 
Free Joe went out into the darkness, followed by little 
Dan. He made his way to the poplar, where Lucinda 
had been in the habit of meeting him, and sat down. 
He sat there a long time; he sat there until little Dan, 
growing restless, trotted off in the direction of the Calder- 
wood place. Dozing against the poplar in the gray 
dawn of the morning, Free Joe heard Spite Calder- 
wood's fox-hounds in full cry a mile away. 



FREE JOE AND THE REST OF THE WORLD 153 

"Shoo!" he exclaimed, scratching his head, and 
laughing to himself, "dem ar dogs is des a-warmin' 
dat old fox up." 

But it was Dan the hounds were after, and the little 
dog came back no more. Free Joe waited and waited, 
until he grew tired of waiting. He went back the next 
night and waited, and for many nights thereafter. His 
waiting was in vain, and yet he never regarded it as in 
vain. Careless and shabby as he w^as. Free Joe was 
thoughtful enough to have his theory. He was convinced 
that little Dan had found Lucinda, and that some 
night when the moon was shining brightly through the 
trees, the dog would rouse him from his dreams as he sat 
sleeping at the foot of the poplar-tree, and he would 
open his eyes and behold Lucinda standing over him, 
laughing merrily as of old; and then he thought what 
fun they would have about the queen of spades. 

How many long nights Free Joe waited at the foot 
of the poplar-tree for Lucinda and little Dan no one can 
ever know. He kept no account of them, and they were 
not recorded by Micajah Staley or by oNIiss Becky. The 
season ran into summer and then into fall. One night 
he went to the Staley cabin, cut the two old people an 
armful of wood, and seated himself on the door-steps, 
where he rested. He was always thankful — and proud, 
as it seemed — when I\Iiss Becky gave him a cup of 
coffee, which she was sometimes thoughtful enough to 
do. He was especially thankful on this particular night. 

"You er still layin' off for to strike up wi' Lucindy 
out thar in the woods, I reckon," said Micajah Staley, 
smiling grimly. The situation was not without its 
humorous aspects. 

"Oh, dey er comin', Mars Cajy, dey er comin', sho," 
Free Joe replied, "I boun' you dey'll come; en w'en 



154 SOUTHERN PROSE .VXD POETRY 

dey does come, I'll des takes en fetch um yer, whar you 
kin see um wid vou own eves, vou en ]Miss Becky." 

''No," said Mr. Staley, with a quick and emphatic 
gesture of disapproval. ''Don't, don't fetch 'em any- 
wheres. Stay right wi' 'em as long as may be." 

Free Joe chuckled, and slipped away into the night, 
while the two old people sat gazing in the fire. Finally 
Micajah spoke: 

"Look at that nigger; look at 'im. He's pine-blank 
as happy now as a killdee by a mill-race. You can't 
'feze 'em. Fd in-about give up my t'other hand ef I 
could Stan' flat-footed, an' grin at trouble like that there 
nigger." 

"Niggers is niggers," said Miss Becky, smiling 
grimly, "an' you can't rub it out; yet I lay I've seed a 
heap of white people lots meaner'n Free Joe. He grins, 
— an' that's nigger, — but I've ketched his under jaw 
a-trimblin' when Lucindy's name uz brung up. An' 
I tell you," she went on bridling up a little, and speaking 
with almost fierce emphasis, " the Old Boy's done sharp- 
ened his claws for Spite Calderwood. You'll see it." 

"Me, Rebecca ?" said Mr. Staley, hugging his palsied 
arm; "me? I hope not." 

"Well, you'll know it then," said Miss Becky, laugh- 
ing heartily at her brother's look of alarm. 

The next morning Micajah Staley had occasion to 
go into the woods after a piece of timber. He saw Free 
Joe sitting at the foot of the poplar, and the sight vexed 
him somewhat. 

"Git up from there," he cried, "an' go an' arn your 
livin'. A mighty purty pass it's come to, when great big 
buck niggers can lie a-snorin' in the woods all day, when 
t'other folks is got to be up an' a-gwine. Git up from 
there!" 



FREE JOE AND THE REST OF THE WORLD 155 

Receiving no response, Mr. Staley went to Free Joe, 
and shook him by the shoulder; but the negro made no 
response. He was dead. His hat was off, his head was 
bent, and a smile was on his face. It was as if he had 
bowed and smiled when death stood before him, humble 
to the last. His clothes were ragged; his hands were 
rough and callous; his shoes were literally tied together 
with strings; he was shabby in the extreme. A passer- 
by, glancing at him, could have no idea that such a 
humble creature had been summoned as a witness before 
the Lord God of Hosts. 



JEAN-AH POQUELIN^ 

BY GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 

In the first decade of the present century, when the 
newly estabHshed American Government was the most 
hateful thing in Louisiana — when the Creoles were still 
kicking at such vile innovations as the trial by jury, 
American dances, anti-smuggling laws, and the print- 
ing of the Governor's proclamation in English — when 
the Anglo-American flood that was presently to burst in 
a crevasse of immigration upon the delta had thus far 
been felt only as slippery seepage which made the Creole 
tremble for his footing — there stood, a short distance 
above what is now Canal Street,^ and considerably back 
from the line of villas which fringed the river-bank on 
Tchoupitoulas Road, an old colonial plantation-house 
half in ruin. 

It stood aloof from civilization, the tracts that had 
once been its indigo fields given over to their first nox- 
ious wildness, and grown up into one of the horridest 
marshes within a circuit of fifty miles. 

The house was of heavy cypress, lifted up on pil- 
lars, grim, solid, and spiritless, its massive build a 

^ This story, like most of Mr. Cable's, is significant by reason 
of its presentation of the passing away of the old Creole civiliza- 
tion in New Orleans, and the beginning of a more modern 
American life. 

^ In New Orleans. 

From Old Creole Days. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons, 

156 



JEAN-AH POQUELIN 157 

strong reminder of days still earlier, when every man 
had been his own peace officer and the insurrection of 
the blacks a daily contingency. Its dark, weather- 
beaten roof and sides were hoisted up above the jungly 
plain in a distracted way, like a gigantic ammunition- 
wagon stuck in the mud and abandoned by some re- 
treating army. Around it was a dense growth of low 
water willows, with half a hundred sorts of thorny or 
fetid bushes, savage strangers alike to the ''language of 
flowers" and to the botanist's Greek. They were 
hung with countless strands of discolored and prickly 
smilax, and the impassable mud below bristled with 
chevaux de jrise^ of the dwarf palmetto. Two lone 
forest-trees, dead cypresses, stood in the centre of the 
marsh, dotted with roosting vultures. The shallow 
strips of water were hid by myriads of aquatic plants, 
under whose coarse and spiritless flowers, could one 
have seen it, was a harbor of reptiles, great and small, 
to make one shudder to the end of his days. 

The house was on a slightly raised spot, the levee 
of a draining canal. The w^aters of this canal did not 
run; they crawled, and were full of big, ravening fish 
and alligators, that held it against all comers. 

Such was the home of old Jean Marie Poquelin, once 
an opulent indigo planter, standing high in the esteem 
of his small, proud circle of exclusively male acquaint- 
ances in the old city; now a hermit, alike shunned by 
and shunning all who had ever known him. ''The last 
of his line," said the gossips. "His father lies under 
the floor of the St. Louis Cathedral, with the wife of 
his youth on one side, and the wife of his old age on 

^ A military defense against cavalry made of bayonet points. 
Here, the barriers or obstructions produced by the thick growth 
of the dwarf palmetto , 



158 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

the other. Old Jean visits the spot daily. His half- 
brother" — alas! there was a mystery; no one knew 
what had become of the gentle, young half-brother, 
more than thirty years his junior, whom once he seemed 
so fondly to love, but who, seven years ago, had dis- 
appeared suddenly, once for all, and left no clew of his 
fate. 

They had seemed to live so happily in each other's 
love. No father, mother, wife to either, no kindred 
upon earth. The elder a bold, frank, impetuous, chiv- 
alric adventurer; the younger a gentle, studious, book- 
loving recluse; they lived upon the ancestral estate like 
mated birds, one always on the wing, the other always 
in the nest. 

There was no trait in Jean Marie Poquelin, said the 
old gossips, for which he was so well known among his 
few friends as his apparent fondness for his ''little 
brother." "Jacques said this," and "Jacques said 
that"; he "would leave this or that, or anything to 
Jacques," for "Jacques was a scholar," and "Jacques 
was good," or "wise," or "just," or "far-sighted," 
as the nature of the case required; and "he should ask 
Jacques as soon as he got home," since Jacques was 
never elsewhere to be seen. 

It was between the roving character of the one 
brother, and the bookishness of the other, that the 
estate fell into decay. Jean Marie, generous gentle- 
man, gambled the slaves away one by one, until none 
was left, man or woman, but one old African mute. 

The indigo-fields and vats of Louisiana had been 
generally abandoned as unremunerative. Certain en- 
terprising men had substituted the culture of sugar; 
but while the recluse was too apathetic to take so 
active a course, the other saw larger, and, at that time. 



JEAN-AH POQUELIN 159 

equally respectable profits, first in smuggling, and 
later in the African slave-trade. What harm could he 
see in it ? The whole people said it was vitally neces- 
sary, and to minister to a vital public necessity, — good 
enough certainly, and so he laid up many a doubloon,^ 
that made him none the worse in the public regard. 

One day old Jean Marie was about to start upon a 
voyage that was to be longer, much longer, than any 
that he had yet made. Jacques had begged him hard 
for many days not to go, but he laughed him off, and 
finally said, kissing him: 

"Adieu, Hit frere." ' 

"No," said Jacques, "I shall go with you." 

They left the old hulk of a house in the sole care of 
the African mute, and went away to the Guinea Coast 
together. 

Two years after, old Poquelin came home without 
his vessel. He must have arrived at his house by 
night. No one saw him come. No one saw "his little 
brother"; rumor whispered that he, too, had returned, 
but he had never been seen again. 

A dark suspicion fell upon the old slave-trader. No 
matter that the few kept the many reminded of the 
tenderness that had ever marked his bearing to the 
missing man. The many shook their heads. "You 
know he has a quick and fearful temper"; and "why 
does he cover his loss with mystery?" "Grief would 
out with the truth." 

"But," said the charitable few, "look in his face; 
see that expression of true humanity." The many did 
look in his face, and, as he looked in theirs, he read 
the silent question: "Where is thy brother Abel?" 

^ A Spanish and South American gold coin. 
2 "Good-by, little brother." 



160 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

The few were silenced, his former friends died off, and 
die name of Jean jNIarie Poquelin became a symbol of 
witchery, devilish crime, and hideous nursery fictions. 

The man and his house were alike shunned. The 
snipe and duck hunters forsook the marsh, and the wood- 
cutters abandoned the canal. Sometimes the hardier 
boys w^ho ventured out there snake-shooting heard 
a slow thumping of oar-locks on the canal. They 
would look at each other for a moment half in con- 
sternation, half in glee, then rush from their sport in 
wanton haste to assail with their gibes the unoffending, 
withered old man who, in rusty attire, sat in the stern 
of a skiff, rowed homeward by his white-headed African 
mute. 

"O Jean-ah Poquelin! O Jean-ah! Jean-ah Poque- 
lin!" 

It was not necessary to utter more than that. No 
hint of wickedness, deformity, or any physical or moral 
demerit; merely the name and tone of mockery : ''Oh, 
Jean-ah Poquelin!" and while they tumbled one over 
another in their needless haste to fly, he would rise 
carefully from his seat, while the aged mute, with down- 
cast face, went on rowing, and rolling up his brown 
fist and extending it toward the urchins, would pour 
forth such an unholy broadside of French imprecation 
and invective as would all but craze them with delight. 

Among both blacks and whites the house was the 
object of a thousand superstitions. Every midnight, 
they affirmed, the feu jollet ^ came out of the marsh and 
ran in and out of the rooms, flashing from window to 
window. The story of some lads, whose words in or- 
dinary statements w^ere worthless, was generally cred- 
ited, that the night they camped in the woods, rather 

^ Will-o'-the-wisp. 



JEAN-AH POQUELIN 161 

than pass the place after dark, they saw, about sunset, 
every window blood-red, and on each of the four chim- 
neys an owl sitting, which turned his head three times 
round, and moaned and laughed with a human voice. 
There was a bottomless well, everybody professed to 
know, beneath the sill of the big front door under the 
rotten veranda; whoever set his foot upon that thresh- 
old disappeared forever in the depth below. 

What wonder the marsh grew as wild as Africa! 
Take all the Faubourg Ste. Marie, and half the ancient 
city, you would not find one graceless dare-devil reck- 
less enough to pass within a hundred yards of the house 
after nightfall. 

The alien races pouring into old New Orleans began 
to find the few streets named for the Bourbon princes 
too strait for them. The wheel of fortune, beginning 
to whirl, threw them off beyond the ancient corpo- 
ration lines, and sowed civilization and even trade 
upon the lands of the Graviers and Girods. Fields 
became roads, roads streets. Everywhere the leveller 
was peering through his glass, rodsmen were whacking 
their way through willow-brakes and rose-hedges, and 
the sweating Irishmen tossed the blue clay up with 
their long-handled shovels. 

*'Ha! that is all very well,'* quoth the Jean-Bap tistes, 
feeling the reproach of an enterprise that asked neither 
co-operation nor advice of them, "but wait till they 
come yonder to Jean Poquelin's marsh; ha! ha! ha!" 
The supposed predicament so delighted them, that they 
put on a mock terror and whirled about in an assumed 
stampede, then caught their clasped hands between 
their knees in excess of mirth, and laughed till the 
tears ran; for whether the street-makers mired in the 



162 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

marsh, or contrived to cut through old ''Jean-ah's" 
property, either event would be joyful. Meantime a 
line of tiny rods, with bits of white paper in their split 
tops, gradually extended its way straight through the 
haunted ground, and across the canal diagonally. 

"We shall fill that ditch," said the men in mud- 
boots, and brushed close along the chained and pad- 
locked gate of the haunted mansion. Ah, Jean-ah 
Poquelin, those were not Creole boys, to be stampeded 
with a little hard swearing. 

He went to the Governor. That official scanned the 
odd figure with no slight interest. Jean Poquelin was 
of short, broad frame, with a bronzed leonine face. 
His brow was ample and deeply furrowed. His eye, 
large and black, was bold and open like that of a war- 
horse, and his jaws shut together with the firmness of 
iron. He was dressed in a suit of Attakapas cottonade, 
and his shirt, unbuttoned and thrown back from the 
throat and bosom, sailor-wise, showed a herculean 
breast, hard and grizzled. There was no fierceness 
or defiance in his look, no harsh ungentleness, no 
symptom of his unlawful life or violent temper; but 
rather a peaceful and peaceable fearlessness. Across 
the whole face, not marked in one or another feature, 
but as it were laid softly upon the countenance like 
an almost imperceptible veil, was the imprint of some 
great grief. A careless eye might easily overlook it, 
but, once seen, there it hung — faint, but unmistakable. 

The Governor bowed. 

" Parlez-vous francaisf^ asked the figure. 

"I would rather talk English, if you can do so," 
said the Governor. 

"My name, Jean Poquelin." 

^ "Do you speak French?" 



JEAN-AH POQUELIN 163 

**How can I serve you, Mr. Poquelin?" 

''My 'ouse is yond'; dans le marais la-has.'' * 

The Governor bowed. 

"Dat marais billong to me." 

"Yes, sir." 

''To me; Jean Poquelin; I hown 'im meself." 

"Well, sir?" 

" He don't billong to you; I get him from me father." 

"That is perfectly true, Mr. Poquelin, as far as I am 
aware." 

"You want to make strit pass yond'?" 

"I do not know, sir; it is quite probable; but the 
city will indemnify you for any loss you may suffer — 
you will get paid, you understand." 

"Strit can't pass dare." 

"You will have to see the municipal authorities about 
that, Mr. PoqueHn." 

A bitter smile came upon the old man's face : 

*' Pardon, Monsieur, you is not le Gouverneurf" 

"Yes." 

*'Mais, yes. You har' le Gouverneur — yes. Veh- 
well. I come to you. I tell you, strit can't pass at 
me 'ouse." 

"But you will have to see " 

"I come to you. You is le Gouverneur. I know 
not the new laws. I ham a Fr-r-rench-a-man ! 
Fr-rench-a-man have something aller an contraire^ — 
he come at his Gouverneur. I come at you. If me 
not had been bought from me king like bossals^ in the 
hold time, ze king gof — France would-a-show Alon- 
sieur le Gouverneur to take care his men to make strit 

^ "Down there in the marsh." 
2 To oppose or speak against. 
^ Vassals, slaves. 



164 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

in right places. Mais, I know; we billong to Monsieur 
le President. I want you do somesin for me, eh?" 

''What is it?" asked the patient Governor. 

"I want you tell Monsieur le President, strit — can't 
— pass — at — me — 'ouse." 

"Have a chair, Mr. Poquelin"; but the old man 
did not stir. The Governor took a quill and wrote a 
line to a city official, introducing Mr. Poquelin, and 
asking for him every possible courtesy. He handed it 
to him, instructing him where to present it. 

''Mr. Poquelin," he said with a conciliatory smile, 
"tell me, is it your house that our Creole citizens tell 
such odd stories about?" 

The old man glared sternly upon the speaker, and 
with immovable features said: 

"You don't see me trade some Guinea nigga'?" 

"Oh, no." 

"You don't see me make some smugghn'?" 

"No, sir; not at all." 

"But, I am Jean Marie Poquelin. I mine me hown 
bizniss. Dat all right? Adieu." 

He put his hat on and withdrew. By and by he 
stood, letter in hand, before the person to whom it was 
addressed. This person employed an interpreter. 

"He says," said the interpreter to the officer, "he 
come to make you the fair warning how you muz not 
make the street pas' at his 'ouse." 

The officer remarked that "such impudence was re- 
freshing"; but the experienced interpreter translated 
freely. 

"He says: ' Why you don't want?' " said the in- 
terpreter. 

The old slave-trader answered at some length. 

"He says," said the interpreter, again turning to 



JEAN-AH POQUELIN 165 

the officer, " the marass is a too unheal th' for peopl' to 
live." 

"But we expect to drain his old marsh; it's not 
going to be a marsh." 

"7/ diV ^ — The interpreter explained in French. 

The old man answered tersely. 

"He says the canal is a private," said the interpreter. 

"Oh! that old ditch; that's to be filled up. Tell 
the old man we're going to fix him up nicely." 

Translation being duly made, the man in power was 
amused to see a thunder-cloud gathering on the old 
man's face. 

"Tell him," he added, "by the time we finish, 
there'll not be a ghost left in his shanty." 

The interpreter began to translate, but — 

"J' comprends, J' comprends,"^ said the old man, 
with an impatient gesture, and burst forth, pouring 
curses upon the United States, the President, the Ter- 
ritory of Orleans, Congress, the Governor and all his 
subordinates, striding out of the apartment as he cursed, 
while the object of his maledictions roared with merri- 
ment and rammed the floor with his foot. 

"Why, it will make his old place worth ten dollars 
to one," said the official to the interpreter. 

" 'Tis not for de worse of de property," said the 
interpreter. 

"I should guess not," said the other, whittling his 
chair, — "seems to me as if some of these old Creoles 
would liever live in a crawfish hole than to have a 
neighbor." 

"You know what make old Jean Poquelin make like 
that? I will tell you. You know " 

1 "He says"— 

=^ "I understand, I understand." 



166 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

The interpreter was rolling a cigarette, and paused 
to light his tinder; then, as the smoke poured in a 
thick double stream from his nostrils, he said, in a 
solemn whisper: 

''He is a witch." 

"Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the other. 

''You don't believe it? What you want to bet?" 
cried the interpreter, jerking himself half up and thrust- 
ing out one arm while he bared it of its coat sleeve with 
the hand of the other. "What you want to bet?" 

"How do you know?" asked the official. 

"Dass what I goin' to tell you. You know, one 
evening I was shooting some groshec} I killed three; 
but I had trouble to fine them, it was becoming so dark. 
When I have them I start' to come home; then I got 
to pas' at Jean Poquelin's house." 

"Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the other, throwing his leg 
over the arm of his chair. 

"Wait," said the interpreter. "I come along slow, 
not making some noises; still, still " 

"And scared," said the smiling one. 

"Mais, wait. I get all pas' the 'ouse. 'Ah!' I 
say; 'all right!' Then I see two thing' before! Hah! 
I get as cold and humide, and shake like a leaf. You 
think it was nothing? There I see, so plain as can be 
(though it was making nearly dark), I see Jean — 
Marie — Po-que-lin walkin' right in front, and right 
there beside of him was something like a man — but 
not a man — white like paint! — I dropp' on the grass 
from scared — they pass'; so sure as I live 'twas the 
ghos' of Jacques Poquelin, his brother!" 

"Pooh!" said the listener. 

^ A species of finch known as the grosbeak. 



JEAN-AH POQUELIN 167 

"I'll put my han' in the fire," said the interpreter. 

"But did you never think/' asked the other, "that 
that might be Jack Poquelin, as you call him, alive 
and well, and for some cause hid away by his brother ?" 

"But there har' no cause!" said the other, and the 
entrance of third parties changed the subject. 

Some months passed and the street was opened. A 
canal was first dug through the marsh, the small one 
which passed so close to Jean Poquelin's house was 
filled, and the street, or rather a sunny road, just 
touched a corner of the old mansion's dooryard. The 
morass ran dry. Its venomous denizens slipped away 
through the bulrushes; the cattle roaming freely upon 
its hardened surface trampled the superabundant un- 
dergrowth. The bellowing frogs croaked to westward. 
Lilies and the flower-de-luce sprang up in the place of 
reeds; smilax and poison-oak gave way to the purple- 
plumed iron-weed and pink spiderwort; the bindweeds 
ran everywhere blooming as they ran, and on one of 
the dead cypresses a giant creeper hung its green 
burden of foliage and lifted its scarlet trumpets. Spar- 
rows and red-birds flitted through the bushes, and 
dewberries grew ripe beneath. Over all these came a 
sweet, dry smell of salubrity which the place had not 
known since the sediments of the Mississippi flrst lifted 
it from the sea. 

But its owner did not build. Over the willow- 
brakes, and down the vista of the open street, bright 
new houses, some singly, some by ranks, were prying 
in upon the old man's privacy. They even settled 
down toward his southern side. First a wood-cutter's 
hut or two, then a market gardener's shanty, then a 
painted cottage, and all at once the faubourg^ had 

' Suburb. 



168 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

flanked and half surrounded hini and his dried-up 
marsh. 

Ah! dien the common people began to hate him. 
"The old tyrant!" ''You don't mean an old tyrant?'' 
"Well, then, why don't he build when the public need 
demands it? What does he live in that unneighborly 
way for?" " The old pirate ! " "The old kidnapper!" 
How easily even the most ultra Louisianians put on 
the imported virtues of the North when they could 
be brought to bear against the hermit. "There he 
goes, with the boys after him! Ah! ha! ha! Jean-ah 
Poquelin! Ah! Jean-ah! Aha! aha! Jean-ah Marie! 
Jean-ah Poquelin ! The old villain ! " How merrily the 
swarming Americains echo the spirit of persecution! 
"The old fraud," they say — "pretends to live in a 
haunted house, does he? We'll tar and feather him 
some day. Guess we can fix him." 

He cannot be rowed home along the old canal now; 
he walks. He has broken sadly of late, and the street 
urchins are ever at his heels. It is like the days when 
they cried: "Go up, thou bald-head," and the old 
man now and then turns and delivers inefTectual curses. 

To the Creoles — to the incoming lower class of su- 
perstitious Germans, Irish, Sicilians, and others — he 
became an omen and embodiment of public and pri- 
vate ill-fortune. Upon him all the vagaries of their 
superstitions gathered and grew. If a house caught 
fire, it was imputed to his machinations. Did a 
woman go off in a fit, he had bewitched her. Did a 
child stray off for an hour, the mother shivered with 
the apprehension that Jean Poquelin had offered him 
to strange gods. The house was the subject of every 
bad boy's invention who loved to contrive ghostly lies. 
"As long as that house stands we shall have bad luck. 



JEAN-AH POQUELIN 169 

Do you not see our pease and beans dying, our cab- 
bages and lettuce going to seed and our gardens turn- 
ing to dust, while every day you can see it raining in 
the woods ? The rain will never pass old Poquelin's 
house. He keeps a fetich. He has conjured the whole 
Faubourg Ste. Marie. And why, the old wretch? 
Simply because our playful and innocent children call 
after him as he passes." 

A "Building and Improvement Company," which had 
not yet got its charter, ''but was going to," and which 
had not, indeed, any tangible capital yet, but "was 
going to have some," joined the "Jean-ah Poquelin" 
war. The haunted property would be such a capital 
site for a market-house! They sent a deputation to the 
old mansion to ask its occupant to sell. The deputa- 
tion never got beyond the chained gate and a very 
barren interview with the African mute. The President 
of the Board was then empowered (for he had studied 
French in Pennsylvania and was considered qualified) 
to call and persuade M. Poquelin to subscribe to the 
company's stock; but — 

"Fact is, gentlemen," he said at the next meeting, 
"it would take us at least twelve months to make Mr. 
Pokaleen understand the rather original features of 
our system, and he wouldn't subscribe when we'd 
done; besides, the only way to see him is to stop him 
on the street." 

There was a great laugh from the Board; they 
couldn't help it. "Better meet a bear robbed of her 
whelps," said one. 

"You're mistaken as to that," said the President. 
"I did meet him, and stopped liim, and found him 
quite polite. But I could get no satisfaction from 
him; the fellow wouldn't talk in French, and when I 



170 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

spoke in English he hoisted his old shoulders up, and 
gave the same answer to everything I said." 

''And that was — ?" asked one or two, impatient 
of the cause. 

"That it 'don't worse w'ile.'" 

One of the Board said: "Mr. President, this mar- 
ket-house project, as I take it, is not altogether a 
selfish one; the community is to be benefited by it. 
We may feel that we are working in the public inter- 
est [the Board smiled knowingly], if we employ all 
possible means to oust this old nuisance from among 
us. You may know that at the time the street was 
cut through, this old Poquelann did all he could to 
prevent it. It was owing to a certain connection which 
I had with that afTair that I heard a ghost story [smiles, 
followed by a sudden dignified check] — ghost story, 
which, of course, I am not going to relate; but I may 
say that my profound conviction, arising from a pro- 
longed study of that story, is, that this old villain, John 
Poquelann, has his brother locked up in that old house. 
Now, if this is so, and we can fix it on him, I merely 
suggest that we can make the matter highly useful. I 
don't know," he added, beginning to sit down, "but 
that it is an action we owe to the community — hem!" 

"How do you propose to handle the subject?" asked 
the President. 

"I was thinking," said the speaker, "that, as a 
Board of Directors, it would be unadvisable for us to 
authorize any action involving trespass; but if you, 
for instance, Mr. President, should, as it were, for 
mere curiosity, request some one, as, for instance, our 
excellent Secretary, simply as a personal favor, to look 
into the matter — this is merely a suggestion." 

The Secretary smiled sufficiently to be understood 



JEAN-AH POQUELIN 171 

that, while he certainly did not consider such prepos- 
terous service a part of his duties as secretary, he might, 
notwithstanding, accede to the President's request; 
and the Board adjourned. 

Little White, as the Secretary was called, was a mild, 
kind-hearted little man, who, nevertheless, had no fear 
of anything, unless it was the fear of being unkind. 

"I tell you frankly," he privately said to the Presi- 
dent, ''I go into this purely for reasons of my own.'' 

The next day, a little after nightfall, one might 
have descried this little man slipping along the rear 
fence of the Poquelin place, preparatory to vaulting 
over into the rank, grass-grown yard, and bearing 
himself altogether more after the manner of a col- 
lector of rare chickens than according to the usage of 
secretaries. 

The picture presented to his eye was not calculated 
to enliven his mind. The old mansion stood out 
against the western sky, black and silent. One long, 
lurid pencil-stroke along a sky of slate w^as all that 
was left of daylight. No sign of life was apparent; 
no light at any window, unless it might have been on 
the side of the house hidden from view. No owls were 
on the chimneys, no dogs were in the yard. 

He entered the place, and ventured up behind a small 
cabin which stood apart from the house. Through one 
of its many crannies he easily detected the African 
mute crouched before a flickering pine-knot, his head 
on his knees, fast asleep. 

He concluded to enter the mansion, and, with that 
view, stood and scanned it. The broad rear steps of 
the veranda would not serve him; he might meet some 
one midway. He was measuring, with his eye, the 
proportions of one of the pillars which supported it, 



172 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

and estimating the practicability of climbing it, when 
he heard a footstep. Some one dragged a chair out 
toward the railing, then seemed to change his mind 
and began to pace the veranda, his footfalls resound- 
ing on the dry boards with singular loudness. Little 
White drew a step backward, got the figure between 
himself and the sky, and at once recognized the short, 
broad-shouldered form of old Jean Poquelin. 

He sat down upon a billet of wood, and, to escape 
the stings of a whining cloud of mosquitoes, shrouded 
his face and neck in his handkerchief, leaving his eyes 
uncovered. 

He had sat there but a moment when he noticed 
a strange, sickening odor, faint, as if coming from 
a distance, but loathsome and horrid. 

Whence could it come? Not from the cabin; not 
from the marsh, for it was as dry as powder. It was 
not in the air; it seemed to come from the ground. 

Rising up, he noticed, for the first time, a few steps 
before him a narrow footpath leading toward the house. 
He glanced down it — ha! right there was some one 
coming — ghostly white! 

Quick as thought, and as noiselessly, he lay down at 
full length against the cabin. It was bold strategy, 
and yet, there was no denying it, little White felt that 
he was frightened. "It is not a ghost," he said to 
himself. ''I know it cannot be a ghost"; but the per- 
spiration burst out at every pore, and the air seemed 
to thicken with heat. "It is a living man," he said 
in his thoughts. "I hear his footstep, and I hear old 
Poquelin's footsteps, too, separately, over on the ver- 
anda. I am not discovered; the thing has passed; 
there is that odor again; what a smell of death! Is it 
coming back ? Yes. It stops at the door of the cabin. 



JEAN-AH POQUELIN 173 

Is it peering in at the sleeping mute ? It moves away. 
It is in the path again. Now it is gone." He shuddered. 
"Now, if I dare venture, the mystery is solved." He 
rose cautiously, close against the cabin, and peered 
along the path. 

The figure of a man, a presence if not a body — but 
whether clad in some white stuff or naked the darkness 
would not allow him to determine — had turned, and 
now, with a seeming painful gait, moved slowly from 
him. "Great Heaven! can it be that the dead do 
walk ?" He withdrew again the hands which had gone 
to his eyes. The dreadful object passed between two 
pillars and under the house. He listened. There was 
a faint sound as of feet upon a staircase; then all was 
still except the measured tread of Jean Poquelin walk- 
ing on the veranda, and the heavy respirations of the 
mute slumbering in the cabin. 

The little Secretary was about to retreat, but as he 
looked once more toward the haunted house a dim 
light appeared in the crack of a closed window, and 
presently old Jean Poquelin came, dragging his chair, 
and sat down close against the shining cranny. He 
spoke in a low, tender tone in the French tongue, mak- 
ing some inquiry. An answer came from within. Was 
it the voice of a human? So unnatural was it — so 
hollow, so discordant, so unearthly — that the stealthy 
listener shuddered again from head to foot, and when 
something stirred in some bushes near by — though it 
may have been nothing more than a rat — and came 
scuttling through the grass, the little Secretary actually 
turned and fled. As he left the enclosure he moved 
with bolder leisure through the bushes; yet now and 
then he spoke aloud: "Oh, oh! I see, I understand!" 
and shut his eyes in his hands, 



174 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

How strange that henceforth Httle White was the 
champion of Jean Poquehn! In season and out of 
season — wherever a word was uttered against him — 
the Secretary, with a quiet, aggressive force that in- 
stantly arrested gossip, demanded upon what authority 
the statement or conjecture was made; but as he did 
not condescend to explain his own remarkable atti- 
tude, it was not long before the disrelish and suspicion 
which had followed Jean Poquelin so many years fell 
also upon him. 

It was only the next evening but one after his ad- 
venture that he made himself a source of sullen amaze- 
ment to one hundred and fifty boys, by ordering them 
to desist from their wanton hallooing. Old Jean Po- 
quelin, standing and shaking his cane, rolling out his 
long-drawn maledictions, paused and stared, then gave 
the Secretary a courteous bow and started on. The 
boys, save one, from pure astonishment, ceased; but 
a ruffianly little Irish lad, more daring than any had 
yet been, threw a big hurtling clod, that struck old 
Poquelin between the shoulders and burst like a shell. 
The enraged old man wheeled with uplifted staff to 
give chase to the scampering vagabond; and — he may 
have tripped, or he may not, but he fell full length. 
Little White hastened to help him up, but he waved 
him off with a fierce imprecation and staggering to his 
feet resumed his way homeward. His lips were red- 
dened with blood. 

Little White was on his way to the meeting of the 
Board. He would have given all he dared spend to have 
stayed away, for he felt both too fierce and too tremu- 
lous to brook the criticisms that were likely to be made. 

"I can't help it, gentlemen; I can't help you to 
make a case against the old man, and I'm not going to." 



JEAN-AH POQUELIN 175 

"We did not expect this disappointment, Mr. White.'* 

"I can't help that, sir. No, sir; you had better 
not appoint any more investigations. Somebody'll in- 
vestigate himself into trouble. No, sir; it isn't a threat, 
it is only my advice, but I warn you that whoever takes 
the task in hand will rue it to his dying day — which may 
be hastened, too." 

The President expressed himself "surprised." 

"I don't care a rush," answered little ^Miite, wildly 
and foolishly. " I don't care a rush if you are, sir. No, 
my nerves are not disordered; my head's as clear as a 
bell. No, I'm not excited." 

A Director remarked that the Secretary looked as 
though he had waked from a nightmare. 

"Well, sir, if you want to know the fact, I have; 
and if you choose to cultivate old Poquelin's society 
you can have one, too." 

"AMiite," called a facetious member, but White did 
not notice. "White," he called again. 

"What?" demanded ^Miite, with a scowl. 

"Did you see the ghost?" 

"Yes, sir; I did," cried White, hitting the table, 
and handing the President a paper which brought the 
Board to other business. 

The story got among the gossips that somebody 
(they were afraid to say little White) had been to the 
Poquelin mansion by night and beheld something ap- 
palling. The rumor was but a shadow of the truth, 
magnified and distorted as is the manner of shadows. 
He had seen skeletons walking, and had barely escaped 
the clutches of one by making the sign of the cross. 

Some madcap boys with an appetite for the horrible 
plucked up courage to venture through the dried marsh 
by the cattle-path, and come before the house at a 



176 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

spectral hour when the air was full of bats. Some- 
thing which they but half saw — half a sight was enough 
— sent them tearing back through the willow-brakes 
and acacia bushes to their homes, where they fairly 
dropped down, and cried. 

"Was it white?" "No — yes — nearly so — we can't 
tell — but we saw it." And one could hardly doubt, to 
look at their ashen faces, that they had, whatever it was. 

"If that old rascal lived in the country we come 
from," said certain Americains, "he'd have been 
tarred and feathered before now, wouldn't he, San- 
ders?" 

"Well, now he just would." 

"And we'd have rid him on a rail, wouldn't we?"^ 

"That's what I allow." 

"Tell you what you could do." They were talking 
to some rollicking Creoles who had assumed an abso- 
lute necessity for doing something. "What is it you 
call this thing where an old man marries a young girl, 
and you come out with horns and " 

'' Charivari? '' asked the Creoles. 

"Yes, that's it. Why don't you shivaree him?" 
Felicitous suggestion. 

Little White, with his wife beside him, was sitting 
on their doorsteps on the sidewalk, as Creole custom 
had taught them, looking toward the sunset. They 
had moved into the lately opened street. The view 
was not attractive on the score of beauty. The houses 
were small and scattered, and across the flat commons, 
spite of the lofty tangle of weeds and bushes, and spite 
of the thickets of acacia, they needs must see the dis- 
mal old Poquelin mansion, tilted awry and shutting out 
the declining sun. The moon, white and slender, was 
hanging the tip of its horn over one of the chimneys. 



JEAN-AH POQUELIN 177 

"And you say," said the Secretary, "the old black 
man has been going by here alone? Patty, suppose 
old Poquelin should be concocting some mischief; he 
don't lack provocation; the way that clod hit him the 
other day was enough to have killed him. Why, Patty, 
he dropped as quick as that! No wonder you haven't 
seen him. I wonder if they haven't heard something 
about him up at the drug-store. Suppose I go and see." 

"Do," said his wife. 

She sat alone for half an hour, watching that sud- 
den going out of the day peculiar to the latitude. 

"That moon is ghost enough for one house," she 
said, as her husband returned. "It has gone right 
down the chimney." 

"Patty," said little White, "the drug-clerk says 
the boys are going to shivaree old Poquelin to-night. 
I'm going to try to stop it." 

"Why, White," said his wife, "you'd better not. 
You'll get hurt." 

"No, I'll not." 

"Yes, you will." 

"I'm going to sit out here until they come along. 
They're compelled to pass right by here." 

"Why, White, it may be midnight before they start; 
you're not going to sit out here till then." 

"Yes, I am." 

"Well, you're very foolish," said Mrs. White in an 
undertone, looking anxious, and tapping one of the 
steps with her foot. 

They sat a very long time talking over little family 
matters. 

"What's that?" at last said Mrs. White. 

"That's the nine-o'clock gun," said White, and 
they relapsed into a long-sustained, drowsy silence. 



178 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

''Patty, you'd better go in and go to bed," said he 
at last. 

**I'm not sleepy." 

''Well, you're very foolish," quietly remarked little 
\Miite, and again silence fell upon them. 

"Patty, suppose I walk out to the old house and 
see if I can find out anything." 

"Suppose," said she, "you don't do any such — 
listen!" 

Down the street arose a great hubbub. Dogs and 
boys were howling and barking; men were laughing, 
shouting, groaning, and blowing horns, whooping, and 
clanking cow-bells, whinnying, and howling, and rat- 
tling pots and pans. 

"They are coming this way," said little White. 
"You had better go into the house, Patty." 

"So had you." 

"No. I'm going to see if I can't stop them." 

"Why, White!" 

"I'll be back in a minute," said White, and went 
toward the noise. 

In a few moments the little Secretary met the mob. 
The pen hesitates on the word, for there is a respecta- 
ble difference, measurable only on the scale of the half 
century, between a mob and a charivari. Little White 
lifted his ineffectual voice. He faced the head of the 
disorderly column, and cast himself about as if he 
were made of wood and moved by the jerk of a string. 
He rushed to one who seemed, from the size and clat- 
ter of his tin pan, to be a leader. "Stop these fel- 
lows, Bienvenu, stop them just a minute, till I tell them 
something.'' Bienvenu turned and brandished his in- 
struments of discord in an imploring way to the crowd. 
They slackened their pace, two or three hushed their 



JEAN-AH POQUELIN 179 

horns and joined the prayer of Httle White and Bien- 
venu for silence. The throng halted. The hush was 
delicious. 

"Bienvenu," said little White, "don't shivaree old 
Poquelin to-night; he's " 

"My fwang," said the swaying Bienvenu, "who 
tail you I goin' to chahivahi somebody, eh ? You sink 
bickause I make a little playfool wiz zis tin pan zat I 
am dhonkf" 

"Oh, no, Bienvenu, old fellow, you're all right. I 
was afraid you might not know that old Poquelin 
was sick, you know, but you're not going there, are 
you?" 

"My fwang, I vay soy to tail you zat you ah dhonk 
as de dev'. I am shem of you. I ham ze servan' of 
ze publique. Zese citoyens goin' to wickwest Jean 
Poquelin to give to the Ursuline' two hondred fifty 
dolla' " 

"iJe qiioi!'' cried a listener, "cinq cent "piastres y^ 
ouif' 

"Oui!'' said Bienvenu, "and if he wiffuse we make 
him some lit' musique; ta-ra tal" He hoisted a merry 
hand and foot, then frowning, added: "Old Poquelin 
got no bizniz dhink s'much w'isky." 

"But, gentlemen," said little White, around whom 
a circle had gathered, "the old man is very sick." 

"My faith!" cried a tiny Creole, "we did not make 
him to be sick. W'en we have say we going make le 
charivari, do you want that we shall tell a lie ? My 
faith! 'sfools!" 

"But you can shivaree somebody else," said des- 
perate little White. 

^ "Five hundred piasters." A piaster is a silver coin of vari- 
ous countries, here representing about a dollar. 



180 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

"Ouil'' cried Bienvenu, ^'et chahivahi eJean-ah Po- 
quelin tomo'w!" 

*'Let us go to Madame Schneider!" cried two or 
three, and amid huzzas and confused cries, among 
which was heard a stentorian Celtic call for drinks, the 
crowd again began to move. 

"Cent piastres pour Vhofital de charitef'^ 

"Hurrah!" 

"One hongred dolla' for Charity Hospital!" 

"Hurrah!" 

"Whang!" went a tin pan, the crowd yelled, and 
Pandemonium gaped again. They were off at a right 
angle. 

Nodding, Mrs. White looked at the mantel-clock. 

"Well, if it isn't away after midnight." 

The hideous noise down street was passing beyond 
earshot. She raised a sash and listened. For a mo- 
ment there was silence. Some one came to the door. 

"Is that you, White?" 

"Yes." He entered. "I succeeded, Patty." 

"Did you?" said Patty, joyfully. 

"Yes. They've gone down to shivaree the old 
Dutchwoman who married her step-daughter's sweet- 
heart. They say she has got to pay a hundred dollars 
to the hospital before they stop." 

The couple retired, and Mrs. White slumbered. 
She was awakened by her husband snapping the lid of 
his watch. 

"What time?" she asked. 

"Half-past three. Patty, I haven't slept a wink. 
Those fellows are out yet. Don't you hear them?" 

"Why, White, they're coming this way!" 

"I know they are," said White, sliding out of bed 
^ "A hundred piasters for the Charity Hospital." 



JEAN-AH POQUELIN 181 

and drawing on his clothes, "and they're coming fast. 
You'd better go away from that window, Patty. My! 
what a clatter!" 

"Here they are," said Mrs. White, but her husband 
was gone. Two or three hundred men and boys pass 
the place at a rapid walk straight down the broad, new 
street, toward the hated house of ghosts. The din was 
terrific. She saw little White at the head of the rabble 
brandishing his arms and trying in vain to make him- 
self heard; but they only shook their heads, laughing 
and hooting the louder, and so passed, bearing him 
on before them. 

Swiftly they pass out from among the houses, away 
from the dim oil lamps of the street, out into the broad 
starlit commons, and enter the willowy jungles of the 
haunted ground. Some hearts fail and their owners 
lag behind and turn back, suddenly remembering how 
near morning it is. But the most part push on, tearing 
the air with their clamor. 

Down ahead of them in the long, thicket-darkened 
way there is — singularly enough — a faint, dancing 
light. It must be very near the old house; it is. It has 
stopped now. It is a lantern, and is under a well- 
known sapling which has grown up on the wayside 
since the canal was filled. Now it swings mysteriously 
to and fro. A goodly number of the more ghost-fear- 
ing give up the sport; but a full hundred move forward 
at a run, doubling their devilish howling and banging. 

Yes; it is a lantern, and there are two persons under 
the tree. The crowd draws near — drops into a walk; 
one of the two is the old African mute; he lifts the 
lantern up so that it shines on the other; the crowd re- 
coils; there is a hush of all clangor, and all at once, 
with a cry of mingled fright and horror from every 



182 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

throat, the whole throng rushes back, dropping every- 
thing, sweeping past Httle AVhite and hurrying on, 
never stopping until the jungle is left behind, and then 
to find that not one in ten has seen the cause of the 
stampede, and not one of the tenth is certain what 
it was. 

There is one huge fellow among them who looks 
capable of any villany. He finds something to mount 
on, and, in the Creole patois, calls a general halt. 
Bienvenu sinks down, and, vainly trying to recline 
gracefully, resigns the leadership. The herd gather 
round the speaker; he assures them that they have 
been outraged. Their right peaceably to traverse the 
public streets has been trampled upon. Shall such 
encroachments be endured ? It is now daybreak. Let 
them go now by the open light of day and force a free 
passage of the public highway! 

A scattering consent was the response, and the crowd, 
thinned now and drowsy, straggled quietly down tow- 
ard the old house. Some drifted ahead, others saun- 
tered behind, but every one, as he again neared the tree, 
came to a stand-still. Little ^Miite sat upon a bank of 
turf on the opposite side of the way looking very stern 
and sad. To each new-comer he put the same question : 

"Did you come here to go to old Poquelin's ?" 

''Yes." 

" He's dead." And if the shocked hearer started away 
he would say: "Don't go away." 

"\^^y not?" 

"I want you to go to the funeral presently." 

If some Louisianian, too loyal to dear France or 
Spain to understand English, looked bewildered, some 
one would interpret for him; and presently they went. 
Little White led the van, the crowd trooping after him 



JEAN-AH POQUELIN 183 

down the middle of the way. The gate, that had never 
been seen before unchained, was open. Stern httle 
^Miite stopped a short distance from it; the rabble 
stopped behind him. Something was moving out from 
under the veranda. The many whisperers stretched 
upward to see. The African mute came very slowly 
toward the gate, leading by a cord in the nose a small 
brown bull, which was harnessed to a rude cart. On 
the flat body of the cart, under a black cloth, were seen 
the outlines of a long box. 

"Hats off, gentlemen," said little \Miite, as the box 
came in view, and the crowd silently uncovered. 

"Gentlemen," said little AMiite, "here come the 
last remains of Jean Marie Poquelin, a better man, 
I'm afraid, with all his sins, — yes, a better — a kinder 
man to his blood — a man of more self-forgetful good- 
ness — than all of you put together will ever dare to be." 

There was a profound hush as the vehicle came creak- 
ing through the gate; but when it turned away from 
them toward the forest, those in front started suddenly. 
There was a backward rush, then all stood still again 
staring one way; for there, behind the bier, with eyes 
cast down and labored step, walked the living remains 
— all that was left — of little Jacques Poquelin, the long- 
hidden brother — a leper, as white as snow. 

Dumb with horror, the cringing crowd gazed upon 
the walking death. They watched, in silent awe, the 
slow cortege'^ creep down the long, straight road and 
lessen on the view, until by and by it stopped where a 
wild, unfrequented path branched off into the under- 
growth toward the rear of the ancient city. 

"They are going to the Terre aux Lep-eux,"^ said 
one in the crowd. The rest watched them in silence. 
^ Funeral train. 2 Leper's Land. 



184 SOUTHERN PROSE .\XD POETRY 

The little bull was set free; the mute, with the 
strength of an ape, lifted the long box to his shoulder. 
For a moment more the mute and the leper stood in 
sight, while the former adjusted his heavy burden; 
then, without one backward glance upon the unkind 
human world, turning their faces toward the ridge in 
the depths of the swamp kno^\Ti as the Leper's Land, 
they stepped into the jungle, disappeared, and were 
never seen again. 



ON TRIAL FOR HIS LIFE ' 

BY JOHN FOX, JR. 

By degrees the whole story was told Chad that night. 
Now and then the Turners would ask him about his 
stay in the Bluegrass, but the boy would answer as briefly 
as possible and come back to Jack. Before going to 
bed, Chad said he would bring Jack into the house : 

'^ Somebody might pizen him," he explained, and 
when he came back, he startled the circle about the fire: 

"Whar's Whizzer?" he asked, sharply. ''^Nho's 
seen Whizzer?" 

Then it developed that no one had seen the Dillon 
dog — since the day before the sheep was found dead 
near a ravine at the foot of the mountain in a back 
pasture. Late that afternoon Melissa had found Whiz- 
zer in that very pasture when she was driving old Betsy, 
the brindle, home at milking-time. Since then, no one 

^ The central figure in The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come is 
Chad, a httle mountain waif, who, ignorant of his own parentage 
and left homeless by his former protector, hurries down the 
mountain with his dog Jack, in order to escape being bound to a 
cruel master. Jack, who has been given him by a passing trader, 
is his only friend. Farther down the mountain slope he is taken 
in by the Turner family, who become equally devoted to Chad 
and Jack. The Turners live in a mountain cabin near the river 
of Kingdom Come. 

From The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come. Published by Charles 
Scribner's Sons. 

185 



186 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

of the Turners had seen the Dillon dog. That, how- 
ever, did not prove that Whizzer was not at home. And 

yet, 

"I'd like to know whar Whizzer is now!" said Chad, 
and, after, at old Joel's command, he had tied Jack to 
a bedpost — an outrage that puzzled the dog sorely — the 
boy threshed his bed for an hour — trying to think out 
a defence for Jack and wondering if Whizzer might not 
have been concerned in the death of the sheep. 

It is hardly possible that what happened, next day, 
could happen anywhere except among simple people 
of the hills. Briefly, the old Squire and the circuit-rider 
had brought old Joel to the point of saying, the night 
before, that he would give Jack up to be killed, if he 
could be proven guilty. But the old hunter cried with 
an oath: 

''You've got to prove him guilty." And thereupon 
the Squire said he would give Jack every chance that 
he would give a man — he would try him; each side could 
bring in witnesses; old Joel could have a lawyer if he 
wished, and Jack's case would go before a jury. If 
pronounced innocent. Jack should go free: if guilty — 
then the dog should be handed over to the sheriff, to be 
shot at sundown. Joel agreed. 

It was a strange procession that left the gate of the 
Turner cabin next morning. Old Joel led the way, 
mounted, with "ole Sal," his rifle, across his saddle- 
bow. Behind him came Mother Turner and Melissa 
on foot and Chad with his rifle over his left shoulder, 
and leading Jack by a string with his right hand. Be- 
hind them slouched Tall Tom with his rifle and Dolph 
and Rube, each with a huge old-fashioned horse-pistol 
swinging from his right hip. Last strode the school- 
master. The cabin was left deserted — the hospitable 



ON TRIAL FOR HIS LIFE 187 

door held closed by a deer-skin latch caught to a wooden 
pin outside. 

It was a strange humiliation to Jack thus to be led 
along the highway, like a criminal going to the gallows. 
There was no power on earth that could have moved 
him from Chad's side, other than the boy's own com- 
mand — but old Joel had sworn that he would keep the 
dog tied and the old hunter always kept his word. 
He had sworn, too, that Jack should have a fair trial. 
Therefore, the guns — and the school-master walked 
with his hands behind him and his eyes on the ground : 
he feared trouble. 

Half a mile up the river and to one side of the road 
a space of some thirty feet square had been cut into a 
patch of rhododendron and filled with rude benches 
of slabs — in front of which was a rough platform on 
which sat a home-made, cane-bottomed chair. Except 
for the opening from the road, the space was walled 
with a circle of living green through which the sun 
dappled the benches with quivering disks of yellow 
light — and, high above, great poplars and oaks arched 
their mighty heads. It was an open-air "meeting- 
house" where the circuit-rider preached during his 
summer circuit and there the trial was to take place. 

Already a crowd was idling, whittling, gossiping in 
the road, when the Turner cavalcade came in sight — 
and for ten miles up and down the river people were 
coming in for the trial. 

"Mornin', gentlemen," said old Joel, gravely. 

''Mornin'," answered several, among whom was the 
Squire, who eyed Joel's gun and the guns coming up 
the road. 

" Squirrel-huntin' ? " he asked and, as the old hunter 
did not answer, he added, sharply: 



188 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

"Air you afeerd, Joel Turner, that you ain't a-goin' 
to git justice from mef" 

'*I don't keer whar it comes from," said Joel, grimly 
— ''but I'm a-goin' to Jiave it." 

It was plain that the old man not only was making 
no plea for sympathy, but was alienating the little he 
had: and what he had was very little — for who but 
a lover of dogs can give full sympathy to his kind? 
And, then, Jack was believed to be guilty. It was 
curious to see how each Dillon shrank unconsciously as 
the Turners gathered — all but Jerry, one of the giant 
twins. He always stood his ground — fearing not man, 
nor dog — nor devil. 

Ten minutes later, the Squire took his seat on the 
platform, while the circuit-rider squatted down beside 
him. The crowd, men and women and children, took 
the rough benches. To one side sat and stood the Dil- 
lons, old Tad and little Tad, Daws, Nance, and others 
of the tribe. Straight in front of the Squire gathered 
the Turners about Melissa and Chad and Jack as a 
centre — with Jack squatted on his haunches foremost 
of all, facing the Squire with grave dignity and looking 
at none else save, occasionally, the old hunter or his little 
master. 

To the right stood the sheriff with his rifle, and on the 
outskirts hung the school-master. Quickly the old 
Squire chose a jury — giving old Joel the opportunity 
to object as he called each man's name. Old Joel ob- 
jected to none, for every man called, he knew, was more 
friendly to him than to the Dillons: and old Tad Dillon 
raised no word of protest, for he knew his case was clear. 
Then began the trial, and any soul that was there would 
have shuddered could he have known how that trial was 



ON TRIAL FOR HIS LIFE 189 

to divide neighbor against neighbor, and mean death 
and bloodshed for half a century after the trial itself 
was long forgotten. 

The first witness, old Tad — long, lean, stooping, 
crafty — had seen the sheep rushing wildly up the hill- 
side "'bout crack o' day," he said, and had sent Daws 
up to see what the matter was. Daws had shouted back : 

"That damned Turner dog has killed one o' our 
sheep. Thar he comes now. Kill him!" And old Tad 
had rushed in-doors for his rifle and had taken a shot at 
Jack as he leaped into the road and loped for home. 
Just then a stern, thick little voice rose from behind Jack: 

"Hit was a God's blessin' fer you that you didn't 
hit him." 

The Squire glared down at the boy and old Joel 
said, kindly: 

"Hush, Chad." 

Old Dillon had then gone down to the Turners and 
asked them to kill the dog, but old Joel had refused. 

"Whar was Whizzer?" Chad asked, sharply. 

"You can't axe that question," said the Squire. 
"Hit's er-er-irrelevant." 

Daws came next. When he reached the fence upon 
the hill-side he could see the sheep lying still on the 
ground. As he was climbing over, the Turner dog 
jumped the fence and Daws saw blood on his muzzle. 

"How close was you to him?" asked the Squire. 

"'Bout twenty feet," said Daws. 

"Humph!" said old Joel. 

"Whar was Whizzer?" Again the old Squire glared 
down at Chad. 

"Don't you axe that question again, boy. Didn't I 
tell you hit was irrelevant?" 

"What's irrelevant?" the boy asked, bluntly. 



190 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

The Squire hesitated, ''^^^ly — why, hit ain't got 
nothin' to do with the case." 

''Hit ain't?" shouted Chad. 

''Joel," said the Squire, testily, "ef you don't keep 
that boy still, I'll fine him fer contempt o' court." 

Joel laughed, but he put his heavy hand on the boy's 
shoulder. Little Tad Dillon and Nance and the Dillon 
mother had all seen Jack running down the road. There 
was no doubt but that it was the Turner dog. And 
with this clear case against poor Jack, the Dillons rested. 
And what else could the Turners do but establish Jack's 
character and put in a plea of mercy — a useless plea, old 
Joel knew — for a first offence ? Jack was the best dog 
old Joel had ever known, and the old man told wonder- 
ful tales of the dog's intelligence and kindness and how 
one night Jack had guarded a stray lamb that had 
broken its leg — until daybreak — and he had been led to 
the dog and the sheep by Jack's barking for help. The 
Turner boys confirmed this story, though it was re- 
ceived with incredulity. 

How could a dog that would guard one lone helpless 
lamb all night long take the life of another ? 

There was no witness that had aught but kind words 
to say of the dog or aught but wonder that he should 
have done this thing — even back to the cattle-dealer who 
had given him to Chad. For at that time the dealer 
said — so testified Chad, no objection being raised to 
hearsay evidence — that Jack was the best dog he ever 
knew. That was all the Turners or anybody could do 
or say, and the old Squire was about to turn the case over 
to the jury when Chad rose: 

"Squire," he said, and his voice trembled, " Jack's my 
dog. I lived with him night an' day for 'bout three years 
an' I want to axe some questions." 



ON TRIAL FOR HIS LIFE 191 

He turned to Daws: 

"I want to axe you ef thar was any blood around that 
sheep." 

"Thar was a great big pool o' blood," said Daws, 
indignantly. Chad looked at the Squire. 

"Well, a sheep-killin' dog don't leave no great big 
pool o' blood, Squire, with the just one he kills! He 
sucks it!" Several men nodded their heads. 

"Squire! The fust time I come over these moun- 
tains, the fust people I seed was these Dillons — an' 
Whizzer. They sicked Whizzer on Jack hyeh and Jack 
whooped him. Then Tad thar jumped me and I 
whooped him." (The Turner boys were nodding con- 
firmation.) "Sence that time they've hated Jack an' 
they've hated me and they hate the Turners partly fer 
takin' keer o' me. Now you said somethin' I axed just 
now was irrelevant, but I tell you. Squire, I know a 
sheep-killin' dawg, and jes' as I know Jack ain't, I 
know the Dillon dawg naturely is, and I tell you, if the 
Dillons' daw^g killed that sheep and they could put it 
on Jack — they'd do it. They'd do it — Squire, an' I tell 
you, you — ortern't — to let — that — sheriff — thar — shoot 
my — dog — until the Dillons answers what I axed — " the 
boy's passionate cry rang against the green walls and out 
the opening and across the river — 

''Whar's Whizzer f' 

The boy startled the crowd and the old Squire himself, 
who turned quickly to the Dillons. 

"Well, whar is Whizzer?" 

Nobody answered. 

"He ain't been seen, Squire, sence the evenin' afore 
the night o' the kiUin'!" Chad's statement seemed to 
be true. Not a voice contradicted. 

"An' I want to know if Daws seed signs o' killin' on 



192 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Jack's head when he jumped the fence, why them same 
signs didn't show when he got home." 

Poor Chad! Here old Tad Dillon raised his hand. 

"Axe the Turners, Squire," he said, and as the school- 
master on the outskirts shrank, as though he meant to 
leave the crowd, the old man's quick eye caught the 
movement and he added: 

"Axe the school-teacher!" 

Every eye turned with the Squire's to the master, 
whose face was strangely serious straightway. 

"Did you see any signs on the dawg when he got 
home ? " The gaunt man hesitated with one swift glance 
at the boy, who almost paled in answer. 

"Why," said the school-master, and again he hesi- 
tated, but old Joel, in a voice that was without hope, 
encouraged him: 

"Go on!" 

" What wus they?" 

" Jack had blood on his muzzle, and a little strand o' 
wool behind one ear." 

There was no hope against that testimony. Me- 
lissa broke away from her mother and ran out to the 
road — weeping. Chad dropped with a sob to his bench 
and put his arms around the dog: then he rose up and 
walked out the opening while Jack leaped against his 
leash to follow. The school-master put out his hand to 
stop him, but the boy struck it aside without looking up 
and went on : he could not stay to see Jack condemned. 
He knew what the verdict would be, and in twenty 
minutes the jury gave it, without leaving their seats. 

"Guilty!" 

The Sheriff came forward. He knew Jack and Jack 
knew him, and wagged his tail and whimpered up at 
him when he took the leash. 



ON TRIAL FOR HIS LIFE 193 

"Well, by , this is a job I don't like, an' I'm 

damned ef I'm agoin' to shoot this dawg afore he knows 
what I'm shootin' him fer. I'm goin' to show him that 
sheep fust. Whar's that sheep. Daws?" 

Daws led the way down the road, over the fence, 
across the meadow, and up the hill-side where lay the 
slain sheep. Chad and Melissa saw them coming — the 
whole crowd — before they themselves were seen. For a 
minute the boy watched them. They were going to kill 
Jack where the Dillons said he had killed the sheep, and 
the boy jumped to his feet and ran up the hill a little 
way and disappeared in the bushes, that he might not 
hear Jack's death-shot, while Melissa sat where she 
was, watching the crowd come on. Daws was at the foot 
of the hill, and she saw him make a gesture toward her, 
and then the Sheriff came on with Jack — over the fence, 
past her, the Sheriff saying, kindly, ''Howdy, Melissa. 
I shorely am sorry to have to kill Jack," and on to the 
dead sheep, which lay fifty yards beyond. If the Sheriff 
expected Jack to drop head and tail and look mean he 
was greatly mistaken. Jack neither hung back nor 
sniffed at the carcass. Instead he put one forefoot on it 
and with the other bent in the air, looked without shame 
into the Sheriff's eyes — as much as to say : 

"Yes, this is a wicked and shameful thing, but what 
have I got to do with it? Why are you bringing me 
here?" 

The Sheriff came back greatly puzzled and shaking 
his head. Passing Melissa, he stopped to let the un- 
happy little girl give Jack a last pat, and it was there 
that Jack suddenly caught scent of Chad's tracks. With 
one mighty bound the dog snatched the rawhide string 
from the careless Sheriff's hand, and in a moment, with 
his nose to the ground, was speeding up toward the 



194 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

woods. With a startled yell and a frightful' oath the 
Sheriff threw his rifle to his shoulder, but the little girl 
sprang up and caught the barrel with both hands, 
shaking it fiercely up and down and hieing Jack on with 
shriek after shriek. A minute later Jack had disap- 
peared in the bushes, Melissa was running like the wind 
down the hill toward home, while the whole crowd in 
the meadow w^as rushing up toward the Sheriff, led by 
the Dillons, who were yelling and swearing like mad- 
men. Above them, the crestfallen Sheriff waited. The 
Dillons crowded angrily about him, gesticulating and 
threatening, while he told his story. But nothing could 
be done — nothing. They did not know that Chad was 
up in the woods or they would have gone in search of 
him — knowing that when they found him they would 
find Jack — but to look for Jack now would be like 
searching for a needle in a hay-stack. There was noth- 
ing to do, then, but to wait for Jack to come home, which 
he would surely do — to get to Chad — and it was while 
old Joel was promising that the dog should be surren- 
dered to the Sheriff that little Tad Dillon gave an ex- 
cited shriek. 

''Look up thar!" 

And up there at the edge of the wood was Chad 
standing and, at his feet. Jack sitting on his haunches, 
with his tongue out and looking as though nothing 
had happened or could ever happen to Chad or to him. 

''Come up hyeh," shouted Chad. 

"You come down hyeh," shouted the Sheriff, angrily. 
So Chad came down, with Jack trotting after him. 
Chad had cut off the rawhide string, but the Sheriff 
caught Jack by the nape of the neck. 

"You won't git away from me agin, I reckon." 



ON TRIAL FOR HIS LIFE 195 

*'Well, I reckon you ain't goin' to shoot him," 
said Chad. ''Leggo that dawg.'' 

"Don't be a fool, Jim," said old Joel. "The dawg 
ain't goin' to leave the boy." The Sheriff let go. 

"Come on up hyeh," said Chad. "I got some- 
thin' to show ye." 

The boy turned with such certainty that without a 
word Squire, Sheriff, Turners, Dillons, and spectators 
followed. As they approached a deep ravine the boy 
pointed to the ground where were evidences of some 
fierce struggle — the dirt thrown up, and several small 
stones scattered about with faded stains of blood on 
them. 

"Wait hyeh!" said the boy, and he slid down the 
ravine and appeared again dragging something after 
him. Tall Tom ran down to help him and the two 
threw before the astonished crowd the body of a black 
and white dog. 

"Now I reckon you know whar Whizzer is," panted 
Chad vindictively to the Dillons. 

"Well, what of it?" snapped Daws. 

" Oh, nothin'," said the boy with fine sarcasm. " Only 
Whizzer killed that sheep and Jack killed Whizzer." 
From every Dillon throat came a scornful grunt. 

"Oh, I reckon so," said Chad, easily. "Look thar!" 
He lifted the dead dog's head, and pointed at the strands 
of wool between his teeth. He turned it over, showing 
the deadly grip in the throat and close to the jaws, that 
had choked the life from Whizzer — Jack's own grip. 

"Ef you will jus' rickollect. Jack had that same grip 
the time afore — when I pulled him off o' Whizzer." 

"By , that's so," said Tall Tom, and Dolph and 

Rube echoed him amid a dozen voices, for not only 
old Joel, but many of his neighbors knew Jack's method 



196 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

of fighting, which had made him a victor up and down 
the length of Kingdom Come. 

There was httle doubt that the boy was right — that 
Jack had come on Whizzer kilhng the sheep, and had 
caught him at the edge of the ravine, where the two had 
fought, roUing down and setthng the old feud between 
them in the darkness at the bottom. And up there on 
the hill-side, the jury that pronounced Jack guilty pro- 
nounced him innocent, and, as the Turners started joy- 
fully down the hill, the sun that was to have sunk on 
Jack stiff in death sank on Jack frisking before them — 
home. 



THE STAR IN THE VALLEY^ 

BY CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK 

(mart n. murfree) 

He first saw it in the twilight of a clear October 
evening. As the earliest planet sprang into the sky, an 
answering gleam shone red amid the glooms in the 
valley. A star, too, it seemed. And later, when the 
myriads of the fairer, whiter lights of a moonless night 
were all athrob in the great concave vault bending to 
the hills, there was something very impressive in that 
solitary star of earth, changeless and motionless beneath 
the ever-changing skies. 

Chevis never tired of looking at it. Somehow it 
broke the spell that draws all eyes heavenward on 
starry nights. He often strolled with his cigar at dusk 
down to the verge of the crag, and sat for hours gazing 
at it and vaguely speculating about it. That spark 
seemed to have kindled all the soul and imagination 
within him, although he knew well enough its prosaic 

^ One of the most picturesque phases of Southern life is the 
presence, in the mountains of Tennessee, Kentucky, and North 
CaroHna, of men and women who have been called " Our Con- 
temporary Ancestors." The life is primitive and the language 
is Elisabethan. The elemental quality of these people, as well 
as the beauty of the mountain scenery, may be seen in all of 
Miss Murfree's stories. 

From In the Tennessee Mountains. By permission of the Houghton 
Mifflin Company. 

197 



198 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

source, for he had once questioned the gawky moun- 
taineer whose services he had secured as guide through 
the forest soHtudes during this hunting expedition. 

''That thar spark in the valley ?'' Hi Bates had re- 
plied, removing the pipe from his lips and emitting a 
cloud of strong tobacco smoke. '' 'Tain't nuthin' but 
the light in Jerry Shaw's house, 'bout haffen mile 
from the foot of the mounting. Ye pass that thar house 
when ye goes on the Christel road, what leads down the 
mounting off the Back-bone. That's Jerry Shaw's 
house, — that's what it is. He's a blacksmith, an' he 
kin shoe a horse toler'ble well when he ain't drunk, 
ez he mos'ly is." 

"Perhaps that is the light from the forge," suggested 
Chevis. 

''That thar forge ain't run more'n half the day, let 
'lone o' nights. I hev never hearn tell on Jerry Shaw 
a-workin' o' nights, — nor in the daytime nuther, ef he 
kin get shet of it. No sech no 'count critter 'twixt hyar 
an' the Settlemint." 

So spake Chevis's astronomer. Seeing the star even 
through the prosaic lens of stern reality did not detract 
from its poetic aspect. Chevis never failed to watch for 
it. The first faint glinting in the azure evening sky 
sent his eyes to that red reflection suddenly aglow in the 
valley; even when the mists rose above it and hid it 
from him, he gazed at the spot where it had disappeared, 
feeling a calm satisfaction to know that it was still shin- 
ing beneath the cloud-curtain. He encouraged himself 
in this bit of sentimentality. These unique eventide 
effects seemed a fitting sequel to the picturesque day, 
passed in hunting deer, with horn and hounds, through 
the gorgeous autumnal forest; or perchance in the more 
exciting sport in some rocky gorge with a bear at bay 



THE STAR IN THE VALLEY 199 

and the frenzied pack around him; or in the idylKc 
pleasures of bird-shooting with a thoroughly trained 
dog; and coming back in the crimson sunset to a well- 
appointed tent and a smoking supper of venison or wild- 
turkey, — the trophies of his skill. The vague dreaminess 
of his cigar and the charm of that bright bit of color in the 
night-shrouded valley added a sort of romantic zest to 
these primitive enjoyments, and ministered to that keen 
susceptibility of impressions which Reginald Chevis 
considered eminently characteristic of a highly wrought 
mind and nature. 

He said nothing of his fancies, however, to his fellow 
sportsman, Ned Varney, nor to the mountaineer. In- 
finite as was the difference between these two in mind 
and cultivation, his observation of both had convinced 
him that they were alike incapable of appreciating and 
comprehending his delicate and dainty musings. Var- 
ney was essentially a man of this world; his mental and 
moral conclusions had been adopted in a calm, mercan- 
tile spirit, as giving the best return for the outlay, and 
the market was not liable to fluctuations. And the 
mountaineer could go no further than the prosaic fact 
of the light in Jerry Shaw's house. Thus Reginald 
Chevis was wont to sit in contemplative silence on the 
crag until his cigar was burnt out, and afterward to lie 
awake deep in the night, listening to the majestic lyric 
welling up from the thousand nocturnal voices of these 
mountain wilds. 

During the day, in place of the red light a gauzy 
little curl of smoke was barely visible, the only sign 
or suggestion of human habitation to be seen from the 
crag in all the many miles of long, narrow valley and 
parallel tiers of ranges. Sometimes Chevis and Varney 
caught sight of it from lower down on the mountain 



200 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

side, whence was faintly distinguishable the little log- 
house and certain vague lines marking a rectangular in- 
closure; near at hand, too, the forge, silent and smoke- 
less. But it did not immediately occur to either of them 
to theorize concerning its inmates and their lives in this 
lonely place; for a time, not even to the speculative 
Chevis. As to Varney, he gave his whole mind to the 
matter in hand, — his gun, his dog, his game, — and his 
note-book was as svstematic and as romantic as the 
ledger at home. 

It might be accounted an event in the history of that 
log-hut when Reginald Chevis, after riding past it 
eighty yards or so, chanced one day to meet a country 
girl walking toward the house. She did not look up, 
and he caught only an indistinct glimpse of her face. 
She spoke to him, however, as she went by, which is the 
invariable custom with the inhabitants of the sequestered 
nooks among the encompassing mountains, whether 
meeting stranger or acquaintance. He lifted his hat in 
return, with that punctilious courtesy which he made 
a point of according to persons of low degree. In another 
moment she had passed down the narrow sandy road, 
overhung with gigantic trees, and, at a deft, even pace, 
hardly slackened as she traversed the great log extend- 
ing across the rushing stream, she made her way up the 
opposite hill, and disappeared gradually over its brow. 

The expression of her face, half-seen though it was, 
had attracted his attention. He rode slowly along, 
meditating. "Did she go into Shaw's house, just 
around the curve of the road?" he wondered. "Is she 
Shaw's daughter, or some visiting neighbor?" 

That night he looked with a new interest at the red 
star, set like a jewel in the floating mists of the valley. 

"Do you know," he asked of Hi Bates, when the 



THE STAR IN THE VALLEY 201 

three men were seated, after supper, around the camp- 
fire, which sent lurid tongues of flame and a thousand 
bright sparks leaping high in the darkness, and illu- 
mined the vistas of the woods on every side, save 
where the sudden crag jutted over the valley, — ''Do 
you know whether Jerry Shaw has a daughter, — a 
young girl?" 

"Ye-es," drawled Hi Bates, disparagingly, "he 
hev." 

A pause ensued. The star in the valley was blotted 
from sight; the rising mists had crept to the verge of 
the crag; nay, in the undergrowth fringing the moun- 
tain's brink, there were softly clinging white wreaths. 

"Is she pretty?" asked Chevis. 

"Waal, no, she ain't," said Hi Bates, decisively. 
"She's a pore, no 'count critter." Then he added, as 
if he were afraid of being misapprehended, "Not ez 
thar is any harm in the gal, ye onderstand. She's a 
mighty good, saft-spoken, quiet sort o' gal, but she's 
a pore, white-faced, slim little critter. She looks like 
she hain't got no sort'n grit in her. She makes me think 
o' one o' them slim little slips o' willow every time nor 
I sees her. She hain't got long ter live, I reckon," he 
concluded, dismally. 

Reginald Chevis asked him no more questions about 
Jerry Shaw's daughter. 

Not long afterward, when Chevis was hunting through 
the deep woods about the base of the mountain near 
the Christel road, his horse happened to cast a shoe. 
He congratulated himself upon his proximity to the 
forge, for there was a possibility that the blacksmith 
might be at work; according to the account which Hi 
Bates had given of Jerry Shaw's habits, there were half 
a dozen chances against it. But the shop was at no great 



202 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

distance, and he set out to find his way back to the 
Christel road, guided by sundry well-known landmarks 
on the mountain side : certain great crags hanging above 
the tree-tops, showing in grander sublimity through the 
thinning foliage, or beetling bare and grim; a dis- 
mantled and deserted hovel, the red-berried vines 
twining amongst the rotting logs; the full flow of a tu- 
multuous stream making its last leap down a precipice 
eighty feet high, with yeasty, maddening waves below 
and a rainbow-crowned crystal sheet above. And here 
again the curves of the woodland road. As the sound of 
the falling water grew softer and softer in the distance, 
till it was hardly more than a drowsy murmur, the faint 
vibrations of a far-off anvil rang upon the air. Welcome 
indeed to Chevis, for however enticing might be the 
long rambles through the redolent October woods with 
dog and gun, he had no mind to tramp up the mountain 
to his tent, five miles distant, leading the resisting horse 
all the way. The afternoon was so clear and so still that 
the metallic sound penetrated far through the quiet for- 
est. At every curve of the road he expected to see the 
log-cabin with its rail fence, and beyond the low-hang- 
ing chestnut-tree, half its branches resting upon the roof 
of the little shanty of a blacksmith's shop. After many 
windings a sharp turn brought him full upon the 
humble dwelling, with its background of primeval 
woods and the purpling splendors of the western hills. 
The chickens were going to roost in a stunted cedar-tree 
just without the door; an incredibly old man, feeble and 
bent, sat dozing in the lingering sunshine on the porch; 
a girl, with a pail on her head, was crossing the road and 
going down a declivity toward a spring which bubbled 
up in a cleft of the gigantic rocks that were piled one 
above another, rising to a great height. A mingled 



THE STAR IN THE VALLEY 203 

breath of cool, dripping water, sweet-scented fern, and 
pungent mint greeted him as he passed it. He did not 
see the girl's face, for she had left the road before he 
went by, but he recognized the slight figure, with that 
graceful poise acquired by the prosaic habit of carrying 
weights upon the head, and its lithe, swaying beauty 
reminded him of the mountaineer's comparison, — a 
slip of willow. 

And now, under the chestnut-tree, he conversed with 
Jerry Shaw, who came out hammer in hand from the 
anvil, concerning the shoe to be put on Strathspey's 
left forefoot, and the problematic damage sustained 
since the accident. Chevis's own theory occupied 
some minutes in expounding, and so absorbed his at- 
tention that he did not observe, until the horse was 
fairly under the blacksmith's hands, that, despite Jerry 
Shaw's unaccustomed industry, this was by no means a 
red-letter day in his habitual dissipation. He trembled 
for Strathspey, but it was too late now to interfere. 
Jerry Shaw was in that stage of drunkenness which is 
greatly accented by an elaborate affectation of sobriety. 
His desire that Chevis should consider him perfectly 
sober was abundantly manifest in his rigidly steady 
gait, the preternatural gravity in his bloodshot eyes, his 
sparingness of speech, and the earnestness with which 
he enunciated the acquiescent formulse which had con- 
stituted his share of the conversation. Now and then, 
controlling his faculties by a great effort, he looked hard 
at Chevis to discover w^hat doubts might be expressed 
in his face concerning the genuineness of this staid de- 
portment; and Chevis presently found it best to affect 
too. Believing that the blacksmith's histrionic attempts 
in the role of sober artisan were occupying his attention 
more than the paring of Strathspey's hoof, which he 



204 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

held between his knees on his leather apron, while the 
horse danced an animated measure on the other three 
feet, Chevis assumed an appearance of indifference, and 
strolled away into the shop. He looked about him, 
carelessly, at the horseshoes hanging on a rod in the 
rude aperture that served as window, at the wagon-tires, 
the ploughshares, the glowing fire of the forge. The 
air within was unpleasantly close, and he soon found 
himself again in the doorway. 

''Can I get some water here?" he asked, as Jerry 
Shaw re-entered, and began hammering vigorously at 
the .-shoe destined for Strathspey. 

The resonant music ceased for a moment. The 
solemn, drunken eyes were slowly turned upon the 
visitor, and the elaborate affectation of sobriety was 
again obtrusively apparent in the blacksmith's manner. 
He rolled up more closely the blue-checked homespun 
sleeve from his corded hammer-arm, twitched nervously 
at the single suspender that supported his copper- 
colored jeans trousers, readjusted his leather apron 
hanging about his neck, and, casting upon Chevis an- 
other glance, replete with a challenging gravity, fell to 
work upon the anvil, every heavy and well-directed 
blow telling with the precision of machinery. 

The question had hardly been heard before forgotten. 
At the next interval, when he was going out to fit the 
horse, Chevis repeated his request. 

"Water, did ye say?" asked Jerry Shaw, looking at 
him with narrowing eyelids, as if to shut out all other 
contemplation that he might grapple with this problem. 
"Thar's no fraish water hyar, but ye kin go yander ter 
the house and ax fur some; or," he added, shading his 
eyes from the sunlight with his broad blackened hand, 
and looking at the huge wall of stone beyond the road, 



THE STAR IN THE VALLEY 205 

*'ye kin go down yander ter the spring, an' ax that thar 
gal fur a drink." 

Chevis took his way, in the last rays of sunshine, across 
the road and down the declivity in the direction indi- 
cated by the blacksmith. A cool gray shadow fell upon 
him from the heights of the great rocks, as he neared 
them; the narrow path leading from the road grew 
dank and moist, and presently his feet were sunk in the 
still green and odorous water-loving weeds, the clumps 
of fern, and the pungent mint. He did not notice the 
soft verdure; he did not even see the beautiful vines 
that hung from earth-filled niches among the rocks, and 
lent to their forbidding aspect something of a smiling 
grace; their picturesque grouping, where they had 
fallen apart to show this sparkling fountain of bright up- 
springing water, was all lost upon his artistic percep- 
tions. His eyes were fixed on the girl standing beside the 
spring, her pail filled, but waiting, with a calm expectant 
look on her face, as she saw him approaching. 

No creature could have been more coarsely habited: 
a green cotton dress, faded to the faintest hue; rough 
shoes, just visible beneath her skirts; a dappled gray 
and brown calico sun-bonnet, thrown aside on a moss- 
grown bowlder near at hand. But it seemed as if the 
wild nature about her had been generous to this being 
toward whom life and fortune had played the niggard. 
There were opaline lights in her dreamy eyes which 
one sees nowhere save in sunset clouds that brood above 
dark hills; the golden sunbeams, all faded from the 
landscape, had left a perpetual reflection in her bronze 
hair; there was a subtle affinity between her and other 
pliant, swaying, graceful young things, waving in the 
mountain breezes, fed by the rain and the dew. She was 
hardly more human to Chevis than certain lissome little 



206 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

woodland flowers, the very names of which he did not 
know, — pure white, star-shaped, with a faint green hne 
threading its way through each of the five dehcate petals; 
he had seen them embellishing the banks of lonely pools, 
or growing in dank, marshy places in the middle of the 
unfrequented road, where perhaps it had been mended 
in a primitive way with a few rotting rails. 

**May I trouble you to give me some water?" asked 
Chevis, prosaically enough. She neither smiled nor re- 
plied. She took the gourd from the pail, dipped it 
into the lucent depths of the spring, handed it to him, 
and stood awaiting its return when he should have 
finished. The cool, delicious water was drained, and 
he gave the gourd back. "I am much obliged," he 
said. 

''Ye're welcome," she replied, in a slow, singing 
monotone. Had the autumn winds taught her voice 
that melancholy cadence ? 

Chevis would have liked to hear her speak again, but 
the gulf between his station and hers — so undreamed of by 
her (for the differences of caste are absolutely unknown 
to the independent mountaineers), so patent to him — 
could be bridged by few ideas. They had so little in 
common that for a moment he could think of nothing 
to say. His cogitation suggested only the inquiry, 
''Do vou live here?" indicatino; the little house on the 
other side of the road. 

"Yes," she chanted in the same monotone, "I live 
hyar." 

She turned to lift the brimming pail. Chevis spoke 
again: *' Do you always stay at home? Do you never 
go anywhere?" 

Her eyes rested upon him, with a slight surprise 
looking out from among their changing lights. "No," 



THE STAR IN THE VALLEY 207 

she said, after a pause; ''I hev no call to go nowhar ez 
I knows on." 

She placed the pail on her head, took the dappled sun- 
bonnet in her hand, and went along the path with the 
assured, steady gait and the graceful backward poise of 
the figure that precluded the possibility of spilling a 
drop from the vessel. 

He had been touched in a highly romantic way by 
the sweet beauty of this little woodland flower. It 
seemed hard that so perfect a thing of its kind should 
be wasted here, unseen by more appreciative eyes than 
those of bird, or rabbit, or the equally uncultured human 
beings about her; and it gave him a baffling sense of the 
mysterious injustice of life to reflect upon the difference 
in her lot and that of others of her age in higher spheres. 
He went thoughtfully through the closing shadows to 
the shop, mounted the reshod Strathspey, and rode 
along the rugged ascent of the mountain, gravely pon- 
dering on worldly inequalities. 

He saw her often afterward, although he spoke to her 
again but once. He sometimes stopped as he came 
and went on the Christel road, and sat chatting with the 
old man, her grandfather, on the porch, sunshiny days, 
or lounged in the barnlike door of Jerry Shaw's shop 
talking to the half-drunken blacksmith. He piqued 
himself on the readiness with which he became inter- 
ested in these people, entered into their thoughts and 
feelings, obtained a comprehensive idea of the machinery 
of life in this wilderness, — more complicated than one 
could readily believe, looking upon the changeless face 
of the wide unpopulated expanse of mountain ranges 
stretching so far beneath that infinite sky. They ap- 
pealed to him from the basis of their common humanity, 
he thought, and the pleasure of watching the develop- 



208 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

ment of the common human attributes in this peculiar 
and primitive state of society never palled upon him. 
He regarded with contempt Varney's frivolous dis- 
pleasure and annoyance because of Hi Bates's utter 
insensibility to the difference in their social position, 
and the necessity of either acquiescing in the suppositi- 
tious equality or dispensing with the invaluable services 
of the proud and independent mountaineer; because of 
the fatois^ of the untutored people, to hear which, Var- 
ney was wont to declare, set his teeth on edge; because 
of their narrow prejudices, their mental poverty, their 
idle shiftlessness, their uncouth dress and appearance. 
Chevis flattered himself that he entertained a broader 
view\ He had not even a subacute idea that he looked 
upon these people and their inner life only as picturesque 
bits of the mental and moral landscape; that it was 
an aesthetic and theoretical pleasure their contemplation 
afforded him; that he was as far as ever from the basis 
of common humanity. 

Sometimes while he talked to the old man on the 
sunlit porch, the ''slip o' willow" sat in the door- 
way, listening too, but never speaking. Sometimes he 
would find her with her father at the forge, her fair, 
ethereal face illumined with an alien and fluctuating 
brilliancy, shining and fading as the breath of the fire 
rose and fell. He came to remember that face so well 
that in a sorry sketch-book, where nothing else was 
finished, there were several laborious pages lighted up 
with a faint reflection of its beauty. But he was as 
much interested perhaps, though less poetically, in that 
massive figure, the idle blacksmith. He looked at it 
all from an ideal point of view. The star in the valley 

» Patois, dialect. 



THE STAR IN THE VALLEY 209 

was only a brilliant, set in the night landscape, and 
suggested a unique and pleasing experience. 

How should he imagine what luminous and wistful 
eyes were turned upward to where another star burned, 
— the light of his camp-fire on the crag; what pathetic, 
beautiful eyes had learned to watch and wait for that 
red gleam high on the mountain's brow, — hardly below 
the stars in heaven it seemed! How could he dream of 
the strange, vague, unreasoning trouble with which 
his idle comings and goings had clouded that young 
life, a trouble as strange, as vague, as vast, as the limit- 
less sky above her ? 

She understood him as little. As she sat in the open 
doorway, with the flare of the fire behind her, and gazed 
at the red light shining on the crag, she had no idea of 
the heights of worldly differences that divided them, 
more insurmountable than precipices and flying chutes 
of mountain torrents, and chasms and fissures of the 
wild ravine : she knew nothing of the life he had left, and 
of its rigorous artificialities and gradations of wealth 
and estimation. And with a heart full of pitiable un- 
realities she looked up at the glittering simulacrum of a 
star on the crag, while he gazed down on the ideal star 
in the valley. 

The weeks had worn deep into November. Chevis 
and Varney were thinking of going home; indeed, 
they talked of breaking camp day after to-morrow, 
and saying a long adieu to wood and mountain and 
stream. They had had an abundance of good sport 
and a surfeit of roughing it. They would go back 
to town and town avocations invigorated by their holi- 
day, and taking with them a fresh and exhilarating 
recollection of the forest life left so far behind. 

It was near dusk, on a dull, cold evening, when Chevis 



210 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

dismounted before the door of the blacksmith's little 
log-cabin. The chestnut-tree hung desolate and bare 
on the eaves of the forge; the stream rushed by in swift 
gray whirlpools under a sullen gray sky; the gigantic 
wall of broken rocks loomed gloomy and sinister on the 
opposite side of the road, — not so much as a withered 
leaf of all their vines clung to their rugged surfaces. The 
mountains had changed color: the nearest ranges were 
black with the myriads of the grim black branches of the 
denuded forest; far away they stretched in parallel 
lines, rising tier above tier, and showing numberless 
gradations of a dreary, neutral tint, which grew ever 
fainter in the distance, till merged in the uniform tone 
of the sombre sky. 

Indoors it was certainly more cheerful. A hickory 
fire dispensed alike warmth and light. The musical 
whir of a spinning-wheel added its unique charm. 
From the rafters depended numberless strings of bright 
red pepper-pods and ears of popcorn ; hanks of woollen 
and cotton yarn; bunches of medicinal herbs; brown 
gourds and little bags of seeds. On rude shelves against 
the wall were ranged cooking utensils, drinking vessels, 
etc., all distinguished by that scrupulous cleanliness 
which is a marked feature of the poor hovels of these 
mountaineers, and in striking contrast to the poor hovels 
of lowlanders. The rush-bottomed chairs, drawn in a 
semicircle before the rough, ill-adjusted stones* which 
did duty as hearth, were occupied by several men, who 
seemed to be making the blacksmith a prolonged visit; 
various members of the family were humbly seated on 
sundry inverted domestic articles, such as wash-tubs, 
and splint-baskets made of white oak. There was cir- 
culating among Jerry Shaw's friends a flat bottle, 
facetiously denominated "tickler," readily emptied, but 



THE STAR IN THE VALLEY 211 

as readily replenished from a keg in the corner. Like 
the widow's cruse of oil, that keg was miraculously 
never empty. The fact of a still near by in the wild 
ravine might suggest a reason for its perennial flow. 
It was a good strong article of apple brandy, and its 
effects were beginning to be distinctly visible. 

Truly the ethereal woodland flower seemed strangely 
incongruous with these brutal and uncouth conditions 
of her life, as she stood at a little distance from this 
group, spinning at her wheel. Chevis felt a sudden 
sharp pang of pity for her when he glanced toward her; 
the next instant he had forgotten it in his interest in her 
work. It was altogether at variance with the ideas 
which he had hitherto entertained concerning that 
humble handicraft. There came across him a vague 
recollection from his city life that the peasant girls of art 
galleries and of the lyric stage were wont to sit at the 
wheel. "But perhaps they were spinning flax," he re- 
flected. This spinning was a matter of walking back 
and forth with smooth, measured steps and graceful, 
undulatory motion; a matter, too, of much pretty ges- 
ticulation, — the thread in one hand, the other regulating 
the whir of the wheel. He thought he had never seen 
attitudes so charming. 

Jerry Shaw hastened to abdicate and offer one of the 
rush-bottomed chairs with the eager hospitality char- 
acteristic of these mountaineers, — a hospitality that 
meets a stranger on the threshold of every hut, presses 
upon him, ungrudgingly, its best, and follows him on his 
departure with protestations of regret out to the rickety 
fence. Chevis was more or less known to all of the visit- 
ors, and after a little, under the sense of familiarity and 
the impetus of the apple brandy, the talk flowed on as 
freely as before his entrance. It was wilder and more 



212 SOUTHERxN PROSE AND POETRY 

antagonistic to his principles and prejudices than any- 
thing he had hitherto heard among these people, and he 
looked on and listened, interested in this new devel- 
opment of a phase of life which he had thought he had 
sounded from its lowest note to the top of its compass. 
He was glad to remain; the scene had impressed his 
cultivated perceptions as an interior by Teniers^ might 
have done, and the vehemence and lawlessness of the 
conversation and the threats of violence had little 
reality for him; if he thought about the subject under 
discussion at all, it was with a reassuring conviction 
that before the plans could be carried out the already 
intoxicated mountaineers would be helplessly drunk. 
Nevertheless, he glanced ever and anon at the young 
girl, loath that she should hear it, lest its virulent, angry 
bitterness should startle her. She was evidently listen- 
ing, too, but her fair face was as calm and untroubled as 
one of the pure white faces of those flower-stars of his 
early stay in the mountains. 

''Them Peels ought n't ter be let live!'^ exclaimed 
Elijah Burr, a gigantic fellow, arrayed in brown jeans, 
with the accompaniments of knife, powder-horn, etc., 
usual with the hunters of the range; his gun stood, with 
those of the other guests, against the wall in a corner 
of the room. "They oughtn't ter be let live, an' I'd 
top off all three of 'em fur the skin an' horns of a deer." 

''That thar is a true word," assented Jerry Shaw. 
"They oughter be run down an' kilt, — all three o' 
them Peels." 

Chevis could not forbear a question. Always on the 

alert to add to his stock of knowledge of men and minds, 

always analyzing his own inner life and the inner life 

of those about him, he said, turning to his intoxicated 

^ Teniers, a Flemish artist. 



THE STAR IN THE VALLEY 213 

host, "Who are the Peels, Mr. Shaw, — if I may 
ask?" 

"Who air the Peels?" repeated Jerry Shaw, mak- 
ing a point of seizing the question. "They air the 
meanest men in these hyar mountings. Ye might hunt 
from Copperhead Ridge ter Clinch River, an' the whole 
spread o' the valley, an' never hear tell o' no sech no 
'count critters." 

"They oughtn't ter be let live!" again urged Elijah 
Burr. "No man ez treats his wife like that dad-burned 
scoundrel Ike Peel do oughter be let live. That thar 
woman is my sister an' Jerry Shaw's cousin, — an' I shot 
him down in his own door year afore las'. I shot him ter 
kill; but somehow 'nother I war that shaky, an' the 
cussed gun hung fire a-fust, an' that thar pore wife o' 
his'n screamed an' hollered so, that I never done nuthin' 
arter all but lay him up for four month an' better for 
that thar pore critter ter nuss. He'll see a mighty differ 
nex' time I gits my chance. An' 'tain't fur off," he 
added threateningly. 

"Wouldn't it be better to persuade her to leave 
him?" suggested Che vis pacifically, without, however, 
any wild idea of playing peace-maker between fire and 
tow. 

Burr growled a fierce oath, and then was silent. 

A slow fellow on the opposite side of the fireplace 
explained: "Thar's whar all the trouble kem from. 
She wouldn't leave him, fur all he treated her awful. 
She said ez how he war mighty good ter her when he 
warn't drunk. So 'Lijah shot him." 

This way of cutting the Gordian knot of domestic 
difficulties might have proved efficacious but for the 
shakiness induced by the thrill of fraternal sentiment, 
the infusion of apple brandy, the protest of the bone of 



214 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

contention, and the hanging fire of the treacherous gun. 
EHjah Burr could remember no other failure of aim 
for twenty years. 

"He won't git shet of me that easy again!" Burr de- 
clared, with another pull at the flat tickler. "But ef it 
hedn't hev been fur what happened las' week, I mought 
hev let him off fur awhile," he continued, evidently 
actuated by some curiously distorted sense of duty in 
the premises. " I oughter hev kilt him afore. But now 
the cussed critter is a gone coon. Dad-burn the whole 
tribe!" 

Chevis was desirous of knowing what had happened 
last week. He did not, however, feel justified in asking 
more questions. But apple brandy is a potent tongue- 
loosener, and the unwonted communicativeness of the 
stolid and silent mountaineers attested its strength in this 
regard. Jerry Shaw, without inquiry, enlightened him. 

"Ye see," he said, turning to Chevis, "'Lijah he 
thought ez how ef he could git that fool woman ter 
come ter his house, he could shoot Ike fur his meanness 
'thout botherin' of her, an' things would all git easy 
again. Waal, he went thar one day when all them Peels, 
the whole lay-out, war gone down ter the Settlemint ter 
hear the rider preach, an' he jes' run away with two of 
the brats, — the littlest ones, ye onderstand, — a-thinkin' 
he mought tole her off from Ike that thar way. We 
hearn ez how the pore critter war nigh on ter distracted 
'bout 'em, but Ike never let her come arter 'em. Least- 
ways, she never kem. Las' week Ike kem fur 'em his- 
self, — him an' them two cussed brothers o' his'n. All 
'Lijah's folks war out'n the way; him an' his boys war 
off a-hunting, an' his wife hed gone down ter the spring, 
a haffen mile an' better, a-washin' clothes ; nobody war 
ter the house 'ceptin' them two chillen o' Ike's. An' 



THE STAR IN THE VALLEY 215 

Ike an' his brothers jes' tuk the chillen away, an' set 
fire ter the house; an' time 'Lijah's wife got thar, 'twar 
nuthin' but a pile o' ashes. So we've determinated ter 
go up yander ter Laurel Notch, twenty mile along the 
ridge of the mounting, ter-night, an' wipe out them 
Peels, — 'kase they air a-goin' ter move away. That 
thar wife o' Ike's, what made all the trouble, hev fretted 
an' fretted at Ike till he hev determinated ter break up 
an' wagon across the range ter Kaintucky, whar his 
uncle lives in the hills thar. Ike hev gin his cornsent ter 
go jes' ter pleasure her, 'kaze she air mos' crazed ter 
git Ike away whar 'Lijah can't kill him. Ike's brothers 
is a-goin', too. I hearn ez how they'll make a start at 
noon ter-morrer." 

"They'll never start ter Kaintucky ter-morrer," said 
Burr, grimly. "They'll git off, afore that, fur hell, 
stiddier Kaintucky. I hev been a-tryin' ter make out ter 
shoot that thar man ever since that thar gal was married 
ter him, seven years ago, — seven years an' better. But 
what with her a-foolin' round, an' a-talkin', an' a-goin' 
on like she war distracted — she run right 'twixt him 
an' the muzzle of my gun wunst, or I would hev hed him 
that time for sure — an' somehow 'nother that critter 
makes me so shaky with her ways of goin' on that I feel 
like I hain't got good sense, an' can't git no good aim 
at nuthin'. Nex' time, though, thar'll be a differ. 
She ain't a-goin' ter Kaintucky along of him ter be beat 
fur nuthin' when he's drunk." 

It was a pitiable picture presented to Chevis's open- 
eyed imagination, — this woman standing for years 
between the two men she loved: holding back her 
brother from his vengeance of her wrongs by that subtle 
influence that shook his aim; and going into exile with 
her brute of a husband when that influence had waned 



216 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

and failed, and her wrongs were supplemented by deep 
and irreparable injuries to her brother. And the curious 
moral attitude of the man: the strong fraternal feeling 
that alternately nerved and weakened his revengeful 
hand. 

**We air goin' thar 'bout two o'clock ter-night," 
said Jerry Shaw, "and wipe out all three o' them 
Peels, — Ike an' his two brothers." 

''They oughtn't ter be let live," reiterated Elijah Burr, 
moodily. Did he speak to his faintly stirring con- 
science, or to a woful premonition of his sister's grief? 

''They'll all three be stiff an' stark afore daybreak," 
resumed Jerry Shaw. "We air all kin ter 'Lijah, an' 
we air goin' ter holp him top off them Peels. Thar's 
ten of us an' three o' them, an' we won't hev no trouble 
'bout it. An' we'll bring that pore critter, Ike's wife, 
an' her children hyar ter stay. She's welcome ter live 
along of us till 'Lijah kin fix some sort'n place fur her 
an' the little chillen. Thar won't be no trouble a-gittin' 
rid of the men folks, ez thar is ten of us an' three o' them, 
an' we air goin' ter take 'em in the night." 

There was a protest from an unexpected quarter. 
The whir of the spinning-wheel was abruptly silenced. 
"I don't see no sense," said Celia Shaw, her singing 
monotone vibrating in the sudden lull, — "I don't see 
no sense in shootin' folks down like they war nuthin' 
better nor bear, nor deer, nor suthin' wild. I don't 
see no sense in it. An' I never did see none." 

There was an astonished pause. 

"Shet up, Cely! Shet up!" exclaimed Jerry Shaw, 
in mingled anger and surprise. "Them folks ain't 
no better nor bear, nor sech. They hain't got no right 
ter live, — them Peels." 

"No, that they hain't!" said Burr. 



THE STAR IN THE VALLEY 217 

"They is powerful no 'count critters, I know," re- 
plied the little woodland flower, the firelight bright in 
her opaline eyes and on the flakes of burnished gold 
gleaming in the dark masses of her hair. "They is 
always a-hanging 'round the still an' a-gettin' drunk; 
but I don't see no sense in a-huntin' 'em down an' 
a-killin' 'em off. 'Pears ter me like they air better nor 
the dumb ones. I don't see no sense in shootin' 'em." 

"Shet up, Cely! Shet up!" reiterated Shaw. 

Celia said no more. Reginald Chevis was pleased 
with this indication of her sensibility; the other women 
— her mother and grandmother — had heard the whole 
recital with the utmost indifference, as they sat by the 
fire monotonously carding cotton. She was beyond her 
station in sentiment, he thought. However, he was 
disposed to recant this favorable estimate of her higher 
nature when, twice afterward, she stopped her work, 
and, filling the bottle from the keg, pressed it upon her 
father, despite her unfavorable criticism of the hangers- 
on of stills. Nay, she insisted. "Drink some more," 
she said. "Ye hain't got half enough yit." Had the 
girl no pity for the already drunken creature? She 
seemed systematically trying to make him even more 
helpless than he was. 

He had fallen into a deep sleep before Chevis left 
the house, and the bottle was circulating among the 
other men with a rapidity that boded little harm to 
the unconscious Ike Peel and his brothers at Laurel 
Notch, twenty miles away. As Chevis mounted 
Strathspey he saw the horses of Jerry Shaw's friends 
standing partly within and partly without the black- 
smith's shop. They would stand there all night, he 
thought. It was darker when he commenced the ascent 
of the mountain than he had anticipated. And what 



218 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

was this driving against his face, — rain? No, it was 
snow. He had not started a moment too soon. But 
Strathspey, by reason of frequent travel, knew every 
foot of the way, and perhaps there would only be a 
flurry. And so he went on steadily up and up the 
wild, winding road among the great, bare, black trees 
and the grim heights and chasms. The snow fell fast, 
— so fast and so silentlv, before he was half-wav to the 
summit he had lost the vague companionship of the 
sound of his horse's hoofs, now muffled in the thick car- 
pet so suddenly flung upon the ground. Still the snow 
fell, and when he had reached the mountain's brow the 
ground was deeply covered, and the whole aspect of the 
scene was strange. But though obscured by the fast- 
flying flakes, he knew that down in the bosom of the 
white valley there glittered still that changeless star. 

''Still spinning, I suppose," he said to himself, as 
he looked toward it and thought of the interior of the 
log-cabin below. And then he turned into the tent to 
enjoy his cigar, his aesthetic reveries, and a bottle of wine. 

But the wheel was no longer awhir. Both music 
and musician were gone. Toiling along the snow-filled 
mountain ways, struggling with the fierce gusts of wind 
as they buffeted and hindered her, and fluttered deris- 
ively among her thin, worn, old garments ; shivering as 
the driving flakes came full into the pale, calm face, and 
fell in heavier and heavier ^Tcaths upon the dappled 
calico sun-bonnet; threading her way through unfre- 
quented woodland paths, that she might shorten the 
distance; now deftly on the verge of a precipice, whence 
a false step of those coarse, rough shoes would fling her 
into unimaginable abysses below; now on the sides of 
steep ravines, falling sometimes with the treacherous, 
sliding snow, but never faltering; tearing her hands 



THE STAR IN THE VALLEY 219 

on the shrubs and vines she clutched to help her for- 
ward, and bruised and bleeding, but still going on; 
trembling more than with the cold, but never turning 
back, when a sudden noise in the terrible loneliness of 
the sheeted woods suggested the close proximity of a 
wild beast, or perhaps, to her ignorant, superstitious 
mind, a supernatural presence, — thus she journeyed on 
her errand of deliverance. 

Her fluttering breath came and went in quick gasps; 
her failing limbs wearily dragged through the deep 
drifts; the cruel winds untiringly lashed her; the snow 
soaked through the' faded green cotton dress to the 
chilled white skin, — it seemed even to the dull blood 
coursing feebly through her freezing veins. But she 
had small thought for herself during those long, slow 
hours of endurance and painful effort. Her pale lips 
moved now and then with muttered speculations: how 
the time went by; whether they had discovered her ab- 
sence at home; and whether the fleeter horsemen were 
even now ploughing their way through the longer, 
winding mountain road. Her only hope was to outstrip 
their speed. Her prayer — this untaught being! — she 
had no prayer, except perhaps her life, the life she was 
so ready to imperil. She had no high, cultured sensi- 
bilities to sustain her. There was no instinct stirring 
within her that might have nerved her to save her fa- 
ther's, or her brother's, or a benefactor's life. She held 
the creatures that she would have died to warn in low 
estimation, and spoke of them with reprobation and con- 
tempt. She had known no religious training, holding 
up forever the sublimest ideal. The measureless moun- 
tain wilds were not more infinite to her than that great 
mystery. Perhaps, without any philosophy, she stood 
upon the basis of a common humanity. 



220 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

When the silent horsemen, sobered by the chill night 
air and the cold snow, made their cautious approach to 
the little porch of Ike Peel's log-hut at Laurel Notch, 
there was a thrill of dismayed surprise among them to 
discover the door standing half open, the house empty 
of its scanty furniture and goods, its owners fled, and 
the very dogs disappeared; only, on the rough stones 
before the dying fire, Celia Shaw, falling asleep and 
waking by fitful starts. 

''Jerry Shaw swore ez how he would hev shot that 
thar gal o' his'n, — that thar Cely," Hi Bates said to 
Chevis and Varney the next day, when he recounted 
the incident, '^only he didn't think she hed her right 
mind; a-w^alkin' through this hyar deep snow full fif- 
teen mile, — it's fifteen mile by the short cut ter Laurel 
Notch, — ter git Ike Peel's folks off 'fore 'Lijah an' her 
dad could come up an' settle Ike an' his brothers. 
Leastways, 'Lijah an' the t'others, fur Jerry hed got so 
drunk he couldn't go; he war dead asleep till ter-day, 
when they kem back a-fotchin' the gal with 'em. That 
thar Cely Shaw never did look ter me like she had good 
sense, nohow. Always looked like she war queer an' 
teched in the head." 

There was a furtive gleam of speculation on the dull 
face of the mountaineer when his two listeners broke 
into enthusiastic commendation of the girl's high hero- 
ism and courage. The man of ledgers swore that he 
had never heard of anything so fine, and that he himself 
would walk through fifteen miles of snow and midnight 
wilderness for the honor of shaking hands with her. 
There was that keen thrill about their hearts sometimes 
felt in crowded theatres, responsive to the cleverly simu- 
lated heroism of the boards; or in listening to a poet's 
mid-air song; or in looking upon some grand and en- 



THE STAR IN THE VALLEY 221 

nobling phase of life translated on a great painter's 
canvas. 

Hi Bates thought that perhaps they too were a little 
"teched in the head." 

There had fallen upon Chevis a sense of deep humilia- 
tion. Celia Shaw had heard no more of that momentous 
conversation than he; a wide contrast was suggested. 
He began to have a glimmering perception that despite 
all his culture, his sensibility, his yearnings toward hu- 
manity, he was not so high a thing in the scale of being; 
that he had placed a false estimate upon himself. He 
had looked down on her with a mingled pity for her 
dense ignorance, her coarse surroundings, her low sta- 
tion, and a dilettante's delight in picturesque effects, 
and with no recognition of the moral splendors of that 
star in the valley. A realization, too, was upon him that 
fine feelings are of most avail as the motive power of 
fine deeds. 

He and his friend went down together to the little 
log-cabin. There had been only jeers and taunts and 
reproaches for Celia Shaw from her own people. These 
she had expected, and she had stolidly borne them. But 
she listened to the fine speeches of the city-bred men 
with a vague wonderment on her flower-like face, — 
whiter than ever to-day. 

''It was a splendid — a noble thing to do," said Var- 
ney, warmly. 

*'I shall never forget it," said Chevis, "it will always 
be like a sermon to me." 

There was something more that Reginald Chevis 
never forgot: the look on her face as he turned and left 
her forever; for he was on his way back to his former 
life, so far removed from her and all her ideas and 
imaginings. He pondered long upon that look in her 



222 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

inscrutable eyes, — was it suffering, some keen pang of 
despair? — as he rode down and down the valley, all 
unconscious of the heart-break he left behind him. He 
thought of it often afterward; he never penetrated its 
mystery. 

He heard of her only once again. On the eve of a 
famous day, when visiting the outposts of a gallant 
corps, Reginald Chevis happened to recognize in one 
of the pickets the gawky mountaineer who had been his 
guide through those autumnal woods so far away. Hi 
Bates was afterward sought out and honored with an 
interview in the general's tent; for the accidental en- 
counter had evoked many pleasant reminiscences in 
Chevis's mind, and among other questions he wished 
to ask w^as what had become of Jerry Shaw's 
daughter. 

''She's dead, — long ago," answered Hi Bates. "She 
died afore the winter war over the year ez ye war a- 
huntin' thar. She never hed good sense ter my way o' 
thinkin', nohow, an' one night she run away, an' walked 
'bout fifteen mile through a big snow-storm. Some say it 
settled on her chist. Anyhow, she jes' sorter fell away 
like afterward, an' never held up her head good no 
more. She always war a slim little critter, an' looked like 
she war teched in the head." 

There are many things that suffer unheeded in those 
mountains: the birds that freeze on the trees; the 
wounded deer that leaves its cruel kind to die alone; the 
despairing, flying fox with its pursuing train of savage 
dogs and men. And the jutting crag whence had shone 
the camp-fire she had so often watched — her star, set 
forever — looked far over the valley beneath, where in 
one of those sad little rural graveyards she had been laid 
so long ago. 



THE STAR IN THE VALLEY 223 

But Reginald Chevis has never forgotten her. When- 
ever he sees the earhest star spring into the evening sky, 
he remembers the answering red gleam of that star in 
the valley. 



ON A DAY IN JUNE 

BY JAMES LANE ALLEN 

This morning, the third of June, the Undine from 
Green River rose above the waves. 

The strawberry bed is almost under their windows. 
I had gone out to pick the first dish of the season for 
breakfast; for while I do not care to eat except to live, 
I never miss an opportunity of living upon strawberries. 

I was stooping down and bending the wet leaves over, 
so as not to miss any, when a voice at the window above 
said, timidly and^ playfully: 

"Are you the gardener?" 

I picked on, turning as red as the berries. Then the 
voice said again: 

''Old man, are you the gardener?" 

Of course a person looking down carelessly on the 
stooping figure of any man and seeing nothing but a 
faded straw hat, and arms and feet and ankles bent to- 
gether, might easily think him decrepit with age. Some 
things touch off my temper. But I answered humbly: 

''I am the gardener, madam." 

''How much do you ask for your strawberries ? " 

"Th^e gentleman who owns this place does not sell 
his strawberries. He gives them away, if he likes peo- 
ple. How much do you ask for your strawberries?" 

"What a nice old gentleman! Is he having those 
picked to give away?" 

From A Kentucky Cardinal. By permission of The MacmUlan Company. 

224 



ON A DAY IN JUNE 225 

"He is having these picked for his breakfast." 

"Don't you think he'd Hke you to give me those, 
and pick him some more?'* 

"I fear not, madam." 

"Nevertheless, you might. He'd never know." 

"I think he'd find it out." 

"You are not afraid of him, are you?" 

"I am when he gets mad." 

"Does he treat you badly?" 

"If he does, I always forgive him." 

"He doesn't seem to provide you with very many 
clothes." 

I picked on. 

"But you seem nicely fed." 

I picked on. 

"\'VTiat is his name, old man? Don't you like to 
talk?" 

"Adam Moss." 

"Such a green, cool, soft name! It is like his house 
and yard and garden. Whsbt does he do ?" 

"Whatever he pleases." 

"You must not be impertinent to me, or I'll tell him. 
What does he like?" 

"Birds — red-birds. What do you like?" 

"Red-birds! How does he catch them? Throw salt 
on their tails?" 

"He is a lover of Nature, madam, and particularly 
of birds." 

"What does he know about birds? Doesn't he care 
for people?" 

"He doesn't think many worth caring for." 

"Indeed! And he is perfect, then, is he?" 

"He thinks he is nearly as bad as any; but that 
doesn't make the rest any better." 



226 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

*' Poor old gentleman ! He must have the blues dread- 
fully. What does he do with his birds ? Eat his robins, 
and stuff his cats, and sell his red-birds in cages ?'* 

"He considers it part of his mission in life to keep 
them from being eaten or stuffed or caged." 

"And you say he is nearly a hundred?" 

"He is something over thirty years of age, madam." 

"Thirty! Surely we heard he was very old. Thirty! 
And does he live in that beautiful little old house all by 
himself?" 

"Hive with him!" 

" You! Ha! ha! ha! And what is your name, you 
dear good old man?" 

"Adam." 

" Two Adams living in the same house! Are you the 
old Adam ? I have heard so much of him." 

At this I rose, pushed back my hat, and looked up at 
her. 

"I am Adam Moss," I said, with distant politeness. 
"You can have these strawberries for your breakfast if 
you want them." 

There was a low quick "Oh!" and she was gone, and 
the curtains closed over her face. It was rude; but 
neither ought she to have called me the old Adam. 
I have been thinking of one thing: why should she 
speak slightingly of my knowledge of birds ? What does 
she know about them ? I should like to inquire. 

Late this afternoon I dressed up in my high gray wool 
hat, my fine long-tailed blue cloth coat with brass but- 
tons, my pink waistcoat, frilled shirt, white cravat, 
and yellow nankeen trousers, and walked slowly several 
times around my strawberry bed. Did not see any more 
ripe strawberries. 



A SOUTHERN HERO OF THE NEW 

TYPE 

BY ELLEN GLASGOW 

Again he was returning to Kingsborough. The 
famihar landscape rushed by him on either side — 
green meadow and russet woodland, gray swamp and 
dwarfed brown hill, unploughed common and sun- 
ripened field of corn. It was like the remembered feat- 
ures of a friend, when the change that startles the un- 
accustomed eye seems to exist less in the well-known 
face than in the image we have carried in our thoughts. 

It was all there as it had been in his youth — the same 
and yet not the same. The old fields were tilled, the old 
lands ran waste in broomsedge, but he himself had left 
his boyhood far behind — it was his own vision that was 
altered, not the face of nature. The commons were not 
so wide as he had thought them, the hills not so high, 
the hollows not so deep — even the blue horizon had 
drawn a closer circle. 

A man on his way to the water-cooler stopped ab- 
ruptly at his side. "Well, I declar, if 'tain't the gov- 
ernor!" 

Nicholas looked up, and recognizing Jerry Pollard, 
shook his outstretched hand. "When did you leave 
Kingsborough?" he inquired. 

From The Voice of the People. By permission of Doubleday, Page 
and Company. 

227 



228 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

''Oh, I jest ran up this morning to lay in a stock of 
winter goods. Trade's thriving this year, and you have 
to hustle if you want to keep up with the tastes of yo' 
customers. Times have changed since I had you in 
my sto'." 

''I dare say. I am glad to hear that you are doing 
well. Was the judge taken ill before you left Kings- 
borough?" 

''The judge? Is he sick? I ain't heard nothin' 
'bout it. It wa'n't more'n a week ago that I told him 
he was lookin' as young as he did befo' the war. It ain't 
often a man can keep his youth like that — but his Caesar 
is just such another. Csesar was an old man as far back 
as I remember, and, bless you, he's spryer than I am this 
minute. He'll live to be a hundred and die of an acci- 
dent." 

"That's good," said the governor with rising inter- 
est. "Kingsborough's a fine place to grow old in. Did 
you bring any news up with you?" 

"Well, I reckon not. Things were pretty lively down 
there last night, but they'd quieted down this morning. 
They brought a man over from Hagersville, you know, 
and befo' I shut up sto' last evening Jim Brown came to 
town, talkin' mighty big 'bout stringin' up the fellow. 
Jim always did talk, though, so nobody thought much 
of it. He likes to get his mouth in, but he's right partic- 
ular 'bout his hand. The sheriff said he warn't lookin' 
for trouble." 

" I'm glad it's over," said the governor. The train was 
nearing Kingsborough, and as it stopped he rose and 
followed Jerry Pollard to the station. 

There was no one he knew in sight, and, with his 
bag in his hand, he walked rapidly to the judge's house. 
His anxiety had caused him to quicken his pace, but 



A SOUTHERN HERO OF THE NEW TYPE 229 

when he had opened the gate and ascended the steps he 
hesitated before entering the hall, and his breath came 
shortly. Until that instant he had not realized the 
strength of the tie that bound him to the judge. 

The hall was dim and cool, as it had been that May 
afternoon when his feet had left tracks of dust on the 
shining floor. Straight ahead he saw the garden, lying 
graceless and deserted, with the unkemptness of extreme 
old age. A sharp breeze blew from door to door, and 
the dried grasses on the wall stirred with a sound like 
that of the wind among a bed of rushes. 

He mounted the stairs slowly, the weight of his tread 
creaking the polished wood. Before the threshold of the 
judge's room again he hesitated, his hand upraised. 
The house was so still that it seemed to be untenanted, 
and he shivered suddenly, as if the wind that rustled 
the dried grasses were a ghostly footstep. Then, as he 
glanced back down the wide old stairway, his own child- 
hood looked up at him — an alien figure, half frightened 
by the silence. 

As he stood there the door opened noiselessly, and 
the doctor came out, peering with short-sighted eyes over 
his lowered glasses. When he ran against Nicholas, 
he coughed uncertainly and drew back. "Well, well, 
if it isn't the governor!" he said. "We have been look- 
ing for Tom — but our friend the judge is better — much 
better. I tell him he'll live yet to see us buried." 

A load passed suddenly from Nicholas's mind. The 
ravaged face of the old doctor — with its wrinkled fore- 
head and its almost invisible eyes — became at once the 
mask of a good angel. He grasped the outstretched 
hand and crossed the threshold. 

The judge was lying among the pillows of his bed, 
his eyes closed, his great head motionless. There was a 



230 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

bowl of yellow chrysanthemums on a table beside him, 
and near it Mrs. Burwell was measuring dark drops 
into a wineglass. She looked up with a smile of w^elcome 
that cast a cheerful light about the room. Her smile and 
the color of the chrysanthemums were in Nicholas's 
eyes as he went to the bed and laid his hand upon the 
still fingers that clasped the counterpane. 

The judge looked at him with a wavering recognition. 
*' Ah, it is you, Tom," he said, and there was a yearning 
in his voice that fell like a gulf between him and the 
man who was not his son. At the moment it came to 
Nicholas with a great bitterness that his share of the 
judge's heart was the share of an outsider — the crumbs 
that fall to the beggar that waits beside the gate. When 
the soul has entered the depths and looks back again it 
is the face of its own kindred that it craves — the re- 
sponsive throbbing of its own blood in another's veins. 
This was Tom's place, not his. 

He leaned nearer, speaking in an expressionless voice. 
"It's I, sir — Nicholas — Nicholas Burr." 

''Yes, Nicholas," repeated the judge doubtfully; 
"yes, I remember, what does he want? Amos Burr's 
son — we must give him a chance." 

For a moment he wandered on; then his memory 
returned in uncertain pauses. He looked again at the 
younger man, his sight grown stronger. "\^Tiy, Nicho- 
las, my dear boy, this is good of you," he exclaimed. 
"I had a fall — a slight fall of no consequence. I shall 
be all right if Csesar will let me fast awhile. Caesar's 
getting old, I fear, he moves so slowly." 

He was silent, and Nicholas, sitting beside the bed, 
kept his eyes on the delicate features that were the lin- 
gering survival of a lost type. The splendid breadth of 
the brow, the classic nose, the firm, thin lips, and the 



A SOUTHERN HERO OF THE NEW TYPE 231 

shaven chin — these were all down-stairs on faded can- 
vases, magnificent over lace ruffles, or severe above 
folded stocks. Over the pillows the chrysanthemums 
shed a golden light that mingled in his mind with the 
warm brightness of Mrs. Burwell's smile — giving the 
room the festive glimmer of an autumn garden. 

A little later Csesar shuffled forward, the wineglass 
in his hand. The judge turned toward him. "Is that 
you, Csesar?" he asked. 

The old negro hurried to the bedside. "Here I is, 
Marse George; I'se right yer." 

The judge laughed softly. "I wouldn't take five 
thousand dollars for you, Caesar," he said. "Tom Bat- 
tle offered me one thousand for you, and I told him I 
wouldn't take five. You are worth it, Csesar — every 
cent of it — but there's no man alive shall own you. 
You're free, Csesar — do you hear, you're free!" 

"Thanky, Marse George," said Csesar. He passed 
his arm under the judge's head and raised him as 
he would a child. As the glass touched his lips the 
judge spoke in a clear voice. "To the ladies!" he 
cried. 

"He is regaining the use of his limbs," whispered 
Mrs. Burwell softly. "He will be wefl again," and 
Nicholas left the room and went down-stairs. At the 
door he gave his instructions to a woman servant. "I 
shall return to spend the night," he said. "You will 
see that my room is ready. Yes, I'll be back to supper." 
He had had no dinner, but at the moment this was for- 
gotten. In the relief that had come to him he wanted 
solitude and the breadth of the open fields. He was 
going over the old ground again — to breathe the air and 
feel the dust of the Old Stage Road. 

He passed the naked walls of the church and followed 



232 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

the wide white street to the college gate. Then, turning, 
he faced the way to his father's farm and the distant 
pines emblazoned on the west. 

A clear gold light flooded the landscape, warming 
the pale dust of the deserted road. The air was keen 
with the autumn tang, and as he walked the quick 
blood leaped to his cheeks. He was no longer conscious 
of his forty years — his boyhood was with him, and 
middle age was a dream, or less than a dream. 

In the branch road a fall of tawny leaves hid the ruts 
of wheels, and the sun, striking the ground like a golden 
lance, sent out sharp, fiery sparks as from a mine of 
light. Overhead the red trees rustled. 

It was here that Eugenia had ridden beside him in 
the early morning — here he had seen her face against 
the enkindled branches — and here he had placed the 
scarlet gum leaves in her horse's bridle. The breeze in 
the wood came to him like the echo of her laugh, faded 
as the memory of his past passion. Well, he had more 
than most men, for he had the ghost of a laugh and 
the shadow of love. 

Passing his father's house, he went on beyond the 
fallen shanty of Uncle Ish into the twilight of the cedars. 
At the end of the avenue he saw the rows of box — 
twisted and tall with age — leading to the empty house, 
where the stone steps were wreathed in vines. Did Eu- 
genia ever come back, he wondered, or was the house 
to crumble as Miss Chris's rockery had done ? On the 
porch he saw the marks made by the general's chair, 
which had been removed, and on one of the long green 
benches there was an E cut in a childish hand. At a 
window above — Eugenia's window — a shutter hung 
back upon its hinges, and between the muslin curtains 
it seemed to him that a face looked out and smiled — not 



A SOUTHERN HERO OF THE NEW TYPE 233 

the face of Eugenia, but a ghost again, the ghost of his 
old romance. 

He went into the garden, crossing the cattle lane, 
where the footprints of the cows were fresh in the dust. 
Near at hand he heard a voice shouting. It was the voice 
of the overseer, but the sound startled him, and he 
awoke abruptly to himself and his forty years. The spell 
of the past was broken — even the riotous old garden, 
blending its many colors in a single blur, could not bring 
it back. The chrysanthemums and the roses and the 
hardy zenias that came up uncared for were powerless 
to reinvoke the spirit of the place. If Eugenia, in her 
full-blown motherhood, had risen in an overgrown path 
he might have passed her by unheeding. His Eugenia 
was a girl in a muslin gown, endowed with immortal 
youth — the youth of visions unfulfilled and desire un- 
quenched. His Eugenia could never grow old — could 
never alter — could never leave the eternal sunshine of 
dead autumns. In his nostrils was the keen sweetness 
of old-fashioned flowers, but his thoughts were not of 
them, and, turning presently, he went back as he had 
come. It was dark when at last he reached the judge's 
house and sat down to supper. 

He was with the judge until midnight, when, before 
going to his room, he descended the stairs and went out 
upon the porch. He had been thinking of the elections 
three days hence, and the outcome seemed to him more 
hopeful than it had done when he first came forward 
as a candidate. The uncertainty was almost as great, 
this he granted; but behind him he believed to be the 
pressure of the people's will — which the schemes of 
politicians had not turned. Tuesday would prove 
nothing — nor had the conventions that had been held; 
when the meeting of the caucus came, he would still be 



234 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

in ignorance — unaware of traps that had been laid or 
surprises to be sprung. It was the mark to which his 
ambition had aimed — the end to which his career had 
faced — that now rose before him, and yet in his heart 
there was neither elation nor distrust. He had done his 
best — he had fought fairly and well, and he awaited 
what the day might bring forth. 

Above him a full moon was rising, and across the crreen 
the crooked path wound like a silver thread, leading to 
the glow of a night-lamp that burned in a sick-room. 
The night, the air, the shuttered houses were as silent 
as the churchyard, where the tombstones glimmered, 
row on row. Only somewhere on the vacant green a 
hound bayed at the moon. 

He looked out an instant longer, and was turning 
back, when his eye caught a movement among the 
shadows in the distant lane. A quick thought came to 
him, and he kept his gaze beneath the heavy maples, 
where the moonshine fell in flecks. For a moment all 
was still, and then into the light came the figure of a 
man. Another followed, another, and another, passing 
again into the dark and then out into the brightness 
that led into the little gully far beyond. There was no 
sound except the baying of the dog; the figures went on, 
noiseless and orderlv and o^rim, from dark to lio:ht and 
from light again to dark. There were at most a dozen 
men, and thev might have been a band of belated 
workmen returning to their homes or a line of revellers 
that had been sobered into silence. They might have 
been — but a sudden recollection came to him, and he 
closed the door softly and went out. There was but one 
thing that it meant; this he knew. It meant a midnight 
attack on the jail, and a man dead before morning who 
must die anyway — it meant vengeance so quiet yet so 



A SOUTHERN HERO OF THE NEW TYPE 235 

determined that it was as sure as the hand of God — and 
it meant the defiance of laws whose guardian he was. 

He broke into a run, crossing the green and following 
the path that rose and fell into the gullies as it led on to 
the jail. As he ran he saw the glow of the night-lamp 
in the sick-room, and he heard the insistent baying of 
the hound. 

The moonlight was thick and full. It showed the quiet 
hill flanked by the open pasture; and it showed the 
little whitewashed jail, and the late roses blooming on 
the fence. It showed also the mob that had gathered — 
a gathering as quiet as a congregation at prayer. But 
in the silence was the danger — the determination to act 
that choked back speech — the grimness of the justice 
that walks at night — the triumph of a lawless rage that 
knows control. 

As he reached the hill he saw that the men he had fol- 
lowed had been re-enforced by others from different 
roads. It was not an outbreak of swift desperation, 
but a well-planned, well-ordered strategy; it was not a 
mob that he faced, but an incarnate vengeance. 

He came upon it quickly, and as he did so he saw that 
the sheriff was ahead of him, standing, a single man, 
between his prisoner and the rope. ''For God's sake, 
men, I haven't got the keys," he called out. 

Nicholas swung himself over the fence and made 
his way to the entrance beneath the steps that led to 
the floor above. He had come as one of the men about 
him, and they had not heeded him. Now, as he faced 
them from the shadow, he saw here and there a familiar 
face — the face of a boy he had played with in childhood. 
Several were masked, but the others raised bare feat- 
ures to the moonlight — features that were as familiar 
as his own. 



236 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Then he stood up and spoke. "Men, hsten to me. 
In the name of the Law, I swear to you that justice shall 
be done — I swear." 

A voice came from somewhere. *'We ain't here to 
talk — you stand aside, and we'll show you what we're 
here for." 

Again he began. ''I swear to you " 

''We don't want no swearing." On the outskirts 
of the crowd a man laughed. "We don't want no 
sw^earing," the voice repeated. 

The throng pressed forward, and he saw the faces 
that he knew crowding closer. A black cloud shut 
out the moonlight. Above the pleading of the sheriff's 
tones he heard the distant baying of the hound. 

He tried to speak again. "We'll be damned, but 
we'll gQi the nigger!" called some one beside him. The 
words struck him like a blow. He saw red, and the sud- 
den rage upheld him. He knew that he was to fight — 
a blind fight for he cared not what. The old savage 
instinct blazed within him — the instinct to do battle to 
death — to throttle with his single hand the odds that 
opposed. With a grip of iron he braced himself against 
the doorway, covering the entrance. 

"I'll be damned if you do!" he thundered. 

A quick shot rang out sharply. The flash blinded 
him, and the smoke hung in his face. Then the moon 
shone and he heard a cry — the cry of a well-known 
voice. 

"By God, it's Nick Burr!" it said. He took a step 
forward. 

"Boys, I am Nick Burr," he cried, and he went down 
in the arms of the mob. 

They raised him up, and he stood erect between 
the leaders. There was blood on his lips, but a man 



A SOUTHERN HERO OF THE NEW TYPE 237 

tore off a mask and wiped it away. "By God, it's 
Nick Burr!" he exclaimed as he did so. 

Nicholas recognized his voice and smiled. His face 
was gray, but his eyes were shining, and as he steadied 
himself with all his strength, he said with a laugh, 
"There's no harm done, man." But when they laid 
him down a moment later he was dead. 

He lay in the narrow path between the doorstep and 
the gate where roses bloomed. Some one had started 
for the nearest house, but the crowd stood motionless 
about him. "By God, it's Nick Burr!" repeated the 
man who had held him. 

The sheriff knelt on the ground and raised him in his 
arms. As he folded his coat about him he looked up 
and spoke. 

"And he died for a damned brute," was what he 
said. 



II 

POEMS 



NATURE POEMS 

ETHNOGENESIS^ 

BY HENRY TIMROD 

But let our fears — if fears we have — be still, 
And turn us to the future! Could we climb 
Some mighty Alp, and view the coming time, 
The rapturous sight would fill 

Our eyes with happy tears! 
Not only for the glories which the years 
Shall bring us; not for lands from sea to sea. 
And wealth, and power, and peace, though these 

shall be; 
But for the distant peoples we shall bless. 
And the hushed murmurs of a world's distress: 
For, to give labor to the poor. 

The whole sad planet o'er. 
And save from want and crime the humblest door, 
Is one among the many ends for which 

God makes us great and rich! 
The hour perchance is not yet wholly ripe 
When all shall own it, but the type 

* Birth of a nation. This poem was written during the meeting 
of the first Southern Congress held at Montgomery, Alabama, 
February, 1861, and was an outburst of joy and praise that the 
South had become a nation. Only the last stanza is here used. 

By permission of the B. F. Johnson Company. 
241 



242 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

^Vhereby we shall be known in every land 
Is that vast gulf which lips our Southern strand, 
And through the cold, untempered ocean pours 
Its genial streams, that far-off Arctic shores 
May sometimes catch upon the softened breeze 
Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas. 



LAND OF THE SOUTH 

BY ALEXANDER BEAUFORT MEEK 

Land of the South! — imperial land! — 

How proud thy mountains rise! — 
How sweet thy scenes on every hand! 

How fair thy covering skies! 
But not for this, — oh, not for these, 

I love thy fields to roam, — 
Thou hast a dearer spell to me, — 

Thou art my native home! 

The rivers roll their liquid wealth, 

Unequalled to the sea, — 
Thy hills and valleys bloom with health. 

And green with verdure be! 
But, not for thy proud ocean streams, 

Not for thine azure dome, — 
Sweet, sunny South! — I cling to thee, — 

Thou art my native home! 

I've stood beneath Italia's clime. 

Beloved of tale and song, — 
On Helvyn's hills, proud and sublime, 

Where nature's wonders throng; 



LAND OF THE SOUTH 243 

By Tempe's classic sunlit streams, 

Where Gods, of old, did roam, — 
But ne'er have found so fair a land 

As thou — my native home! 

And thou hast prouder glories too, 

Than nature ever gave, — 
Peace sheds o'er thee her genial dew, 

And Freedom's pinions wave, — 
Fair Science flings her pearls around. 

Religion lifts her dome, — 
These, these endear thee to my heart, — 

My own, loved native home! 

And "heaven's best gift to man" is thine, — 

God bless thy rosy girls! — 
Like sylvan flowers, they sweetly shine, — 

Their hearts are pure as pearls! 
And grace and goodness circle them, 

\^^lere'er their footsteps roam — 
How can I then, whilst loving them. 

Not love my native home! 

Land of the South! — imperial land! — 

Then here's a health to thee, — 
Long as thy mountain barriers stand, 

May'st thou be blest and free! — 
May dark dissension's banner ne'er 

Wave o'er thy fertile loam, — 
But should it come, there's one will die, 

To save his native home! 



244 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

THE COTTON BOLL 

BY HENRY TIMROD 

While I recline 

At ease beneath 

This immemorial pine, 

Small sphere! 

(By dusky fingers brought this morning here 

And shown with boastful smiles), 

I turn thy cloven sheath. 

Through which the soft white fibres peer, 

That, with their gossamer bands, 

Unite, like love, the sea-divided lands, ^ 

And slowlv, thread bv thread, 

Draw forth the folded strands. 

Than which the trembling line. 

By whose frail help yon startled spider fled 

Down the tall spear-grass from his svringing bed, 

Is scarce more fine; 

And as the tangled skein 

Unravels in my hands. 

Betwixt me and the noonday light, 

A veil seems lifted, and for miles and miles 

The landscape broadens on my sight. 

As, in the little boll, there lurked a spell 

Like that which, in the ocean shell, 

\yith mystic sound, 

Breaks down the narrow walls that hem us round, 

And turns some city lane 

Into the restless main. 

With all his capes and isles! 

By permission of the B. F. Johnson Company. 



THE COTTOxN BOLL 245 

Yonder bird, 

Which floats, as if at rest. 
In those blue tracts above the thunder, where 
No vapors cloud the stainless air, 
And never sound is heard, 
Unless at such rare time 
When, from the City of the Blest, 
Rings down some golden chime. 
Sees not from his high place 
So vast a cirque^ of summer space 
As widens round me in one mighty field. 
Which, rimmed by seas and sands. 
Doth hail its earliest daylight in the beams 
Of gray Atlantic dawns; 

And, broad as realms made up of many lands. 
Is lost afar ^ 

Behind the crimson hills and purple lawns 
Of sunset, among plains which roll their streams 
Against the Evening Star! 
And lo! 

To the remotest point of sight. 
Although I gaze upon no waste of snow, 
The endless field is white; 
And the whole landscape glows. 
For many a shining league away, 
With such accumulated light 
As Polar lands would flash beneath a tropic day! 
Nor lack there (for the vision grows. 
And the small charm within my hands — 
More potent even than the fabled one. 
Which oped whatever golden mystery 
Lay hid in fairy wood or magic vale, 
The curious ointment of the Arabian tale — 
^ A circular valley. 



246 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Beyond all mortal sense 

Doth stretch my sight's horizon, and I see, 

Beneath its simple influence, 

As if with Uriel's^ crown, 

I stood in some great temple of the Sun, 

And looked, as Uriel, down!) 

Nor lacked there pastures rich and fields all green 

With all the common gifts of God, 

For temperate airs and torrid sheen 

Weave Edens of the sod; 

Through lands which look one sea of billowy gold 

Broad rivers wind their devious ways; 

A hundred isles in their embraces fold 

A hundred luminous bays; 

And through yon purple haze 

Vast mountains lift their plumed peaks cloud-crowned; 

And, save where up their sides the ploughman creeps. 

An unhewn forest girds them grandly round. 

In whose dark shades a future navy sleeps! 

Ye Stars, which, though unseen, yet with me gaze 

Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth! 

Thou Sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest rays 

Above it, as to light a favorite hearth! 

Ye Clouds, that in your temples in the West 

See nothing brighter than its humblest flowers! 

And you, ye Winds, that on the ocean's breast 

Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its bowers! 

Bear witness with me in my song of praise. 

And tell the world that, since the world began, 

No fairer land hath fired a poet's lays, 

Or given a home to man! 

But these are charms already widely blown! 

* One of the seven archangels nearest God's throne. See 
Paradise Lost. 



THE COTTON BOLL 247 

His be the meed whose pencil's trace 
Hath touched our very swamps with grace, 
And round whose tuneful way 
All Southern laurels bloom; 
The Poet^ of "The Woodlands/' unto whom 
Alike are known 

The flute's low breathing and the trumpet's tone, 
And the soft west wind's sighs; 
But who shall utter all the debt, 
O land wherein all powers are met 
That bind a people's heart, 
The world doth owe thee at this day. 
And which it never can repay, 
Yet scarcely deigns to own! 
Where sleeps the poet who shall fitly sing 
The source wherefrom doth spring 
That mighty commerce which, confined 
To the mean channels of no selfish mart. 
Goes out to every shore 

Of this broad earth, and throngs the sea with ships 
That bear no thunders; hushes hungry lips 
In alien lands; 

Joins with a delicate web remotest strands; 
And gladdening rich and poor. 
Doth gild Parisian domes. 
Or feed the cottage-smoke of English homes, 
And only bounds its blessings by mankind! 
In ofiices like these thy mission lies. 
My Country! and it shall not end 
As long as rain shall fall and Heaven bend 
In blue above thee; though thy foes be hard 
And cruel as their weapons, it shall guard 
Thy hearth-stones as a bulwark; make thee great 
^ William Gilmore Simms. 



248 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

In white and bloodless state; 

And haply, as the years increase — 

Still working through its humbler reach 

With that large wisdom which the ages teach — 

Revive the half-dead dream of universal peace! 

As men who labor in that mine 

Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed 

Of ocean, when a storm rolls overhead, 

Hear the dull booming of the world of brine 

Above them, and a mighty muffled roar 

Of winds and v/aters, yet toil calmly on, 

And split the rock, and pile the massive ore, 

Or carve a niche, or shape the arched roof; 

So I, as calmly, weave my woof 

Of song, chanting the days to come, 

Unsilenced, though the quiet summer air 

Stirs with the bruit of battles, and each dawn 

Wakes from its starry silence to the hum 

Of many gathering armies. Still, 

In that we sometimes hear. 

Upon the Northern winds, the voice of woe 

Not wholly drowned in triumph, though I know 

The end must crown us, and a few brief years 

Dry all our tears, 

I may not sing too gladly. To Thy will 

Resigned, O Lord! we cannot all forget 

That there is much even Victory must regret. 

And, therefore, not too long 

From the great burthen of our country's wrong 

Delay our just release! 

And, if it may be, save 

These sacred fields of peace 

From stain of patriot or of hostile blood! 

Oh, help us. Lord! to roll the crimson flood 



SPRING 249 

Back on Its course, and while our banners wing 
Northward, strike with us! till the Goth^ shall cling 
To his own blasted altar-stones, and crave 
Mercy; and we shall grant it, and dictate 
The lenient future of his fate 

There, where some rotting ships and crumbling quays 
Shall one day mark the Port which ruled the Western 
seas. 



SPRING 

BY HENRY TIMROD 

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air 
Which dwells with all things fair. 
Spring, with her golden suns, and silver rain, 
Is with us once again. 

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns 
Its fragrant lamps, and turns 
Into a royal court with green festoons 
The banks of dark lagoons. 

In the deep heart of every forest tree 
The blood is all aglee. 

And there's a look about the leafless bowers 
As if they dreamed of flowers. 

^ Goth, used metaphorically in reference to the Northern 
soldiers of the Civil War. 

By permission of the B. F. Johnson Company. 



250 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Yet still on every side we trace the hand 
Of Winter in the land, 
Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, 
Flushed by the season's dawn; 

Or where, like those strange semblances we find 
That age to childhood bind. 
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, 
The brown of Autumn corn. 

As yet the turf is dark, although you know 
That, not a span below, 

A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, 
And soon will burst their tomb. 

Already, here and there, on frailest stems 
Appear some azure gems. 
Small as might deck, upon a gala day, 
The forehead of a fay. 

In gardens you may note amid the dearth 
The crocus breaking earth; 

And near the snowdrop's tender white and green 
The violet in its screen. 

But many gleams and shadows need must pass 
Along the budding grass. 

And weeks go by, before the enamoured South* 
Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 

Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn 
In the sweet airs of morn; 
One almost looks to see the very street 
Grow purple at his feet. 

^ The south wind. 



SPRING 251 

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, 
And brings, you know not why, 
A feeling as when eager crowds await 
Before a palace gate 

Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would 

start, 
If from a beech's heart, 

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, 
^'Behold me! I am May!" 

Ah! who would couple thoughts of war and crime 
With such a blessed time! 
Wlio in the west wind's aromatic breath 
Could hear the call of Death! 

Yet not more surely shall the Spring awake 
The voice of wood and brake. 
Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil charms, 
A million men to arms. 

There shall be deeper hues upon her plains 
Than all her sunlit rains. 
And every gladdening influence around. 
Can summon from the ground. 

Oh! standing on this desecrated mould, 
Methinks that I behold. 
Lifting her bloody daisies up to God, 
Spring kneeling on the sod. 

And calling, with the voice of all her rills. 
Upon the ancient hills 

To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves 
Who turn her meads to graves. 



252 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 



SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE 

BY SIDNEY LANIER 

Out of the hills of Habersham, 

Down the valleys of Hall, 
I hurry amain to reach the plain. 
Run the rapid and leap the fall, 
Split at the rock and together again. 
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, 
And flee from folly on every side 
With a lover's pain to attain the plain 

Far from the hills of Habersham, 

Far from the valleys of Hall. 

All down the hills of Habersham, 

All through the valleys of Hall, 
The rushes cried Abide, abide, 
The wilful waterweeds held me thrall. 
The laving laurel turned my tide, 
The ferns and the fondling grass said Stay, 
The dewberry dipped for to work delay. 
And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide, 

Here in the hills of Habersham, 

Here in the valleys of Hall. 

High o'er the hills of Habersham, 

Veiling the valleys of Hall, 
The hickory told me manifold 
Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall 

From Poems of Sidney Lanier. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons, 



SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE 253 

vVrought me her shadowy self to hold, 
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, 
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign. 
Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold 

Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, 
These glades in the valleys of Hall. 

And oft in the hills of Habersham, 

And oft in the valleys of Hall, 
The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook- 
stone 
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, 
And many a luminous jewel lone 
— Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, 
Ruby, garnet, and amethyst — 
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone 

In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, 

In the beds of the valleys of Hall. 

But oh, not the hills of Habersham, 

And oh, not the valleys of Hall 
Avail: I am fain for to water the plain. 
Downward the voices of Duty call — 
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main. 
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, 
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn. 
And the lordly main from beyond the plain 

Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, 

Calls through the valleys of Hall. 



254 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 



ASPECTS OF THE PINES 

BY PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 

Tall, sombre, grim, against the morning sky 
They rise, scarce touched by melancholy airs, 

Which stir the fadeless foliage dreamfully, 
As if from realms of mythical despairs. 

Tall, sombre, grim, they stand with dusky gleams 
Brightening to gold within the woodland's core. 

Beneath the gracious noontide's tranquil beams — 
But the weird winds of morning sigh no more. 

A stillness, strange, divine, ineffable, 

Broods round and o'er them in the wind's sur- 
cease. 
And on each tinted copse and shimmering dell 

Rests the mute rapture of deep-hearted peace. 

Last, sunset comes — the solemn joy and might 
Borne from the west when cloudless day declines — 

Low, flutelike breezes sweep the waves of light. 
And lifting dark green tresses of the pines. 

Till every lock is luminous — gently float. 

Fraught w^ith hale odors up the heavens afar, 

To faint when Twilight on her virginal throat 
Wears for a gem the tremulous vesper star. 

By permission of Lothrop, Lee and Shepard. 



THE LIGHT'OOD FIRE 255 



THE LIGHT'OOD FIRE 

BY JOHN HENRY BONER 

When wintry days are dark and drear 

And all the forest ways grow still, 
When gray snow-laden clouds appear 

Along the bleak horizon hill, 
When cattle all are snugly penned 

And sheep go huddling close together, 
When steady streams of smoke ascend 

From farm-house chimneys — in such weather 
Give me old Carolina's own, 
A great log house, a great hearthstone, 
A cheering pipe of cob or brier 
iVnd a red, leaping light'ood fire. 

When dreary day draws to a close 

And all the silent land is dark. 
When Boreas^ down the chimney blows 

And sparks fly from the crackling bark. 
When limbs are bent with snow or sleet 

And owls hoot from the hollow tree. 
With hounds asleep about your feet. 
Then is the time for reverie. 
Give me old Carolina's own, 
A hospitable wide hearthstone, 
A cheering pipe of cob or brier 
And a red, rousing light'ood fire. 

^ Boreas; the North wind. 
From Boner's Lyrics. By permission of Mrs. John Henry Boner. 



256 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

OCTOBER 

BY JOHN CHARLES McNEILL 

The thought of old, dear things is in thine eyes, 

month of memories! 

Musing on days thine heart hath sorrow of, 
Old joy, dead hope, dear love. 

1 see thee stand where all thy sisters meet 
To cast down at thy feet 

The garnered largess of the fruitful year, 
And on thy cheek a tear. 

Thy glory flames in every blade and leaf 

To blind the eyes of grief; 

Thy vineyards and thine orchards bend with fruit 

That sorrow may be mute; 

A hectic splendor lights thy days to sleep. 
Ere the gray dusk may creep 
Sober and sad along thy dusty ways, 
Like a lone nun, who prays; 

High and faint heard thy passing migrant calls; 
Thy lazy lizard sprawls 

On his gray stone, and many slow winds creep 
About thy hedge, asleep; 

The sun swings farther toward his love, the south, 
To kiss her glowing mouth; 

From Songs, Merry and Sad. By permission of Stone, Barringer and 
Company, Charlotte, N. C. 



OCTOBER 257 

And Death, who steals among thy purpling bowers, 
Is deeply hid in flowers. 

Would that thy streams were Lethe,^ and might flov, 
WTiere lotus blossoms blow. 
And all the sweets wherewith thy riches bless 
Might hold no bitterness! 

Would, in thy beauty, we might all forget 

Dead days and old regret, 

And through thy realm might fare us forth to roam, 

Having no thought for home! 

And yet I feel, beneath thy queen's attire. 
Woven of blood and fire. 
Beneath the golden glory of thy charm 
Thy mother heart beats warm. 

And if, mayhap, a wandering child of thee. 

Weary of land and sea, 

Should turn him homeward from his dreamer's quest 

To sob upon thy breast. 

Thine arm would fold him tenderly, to prove 
How thine eyes brimmed with love. 
And thy dear hand, with all a mother's care. 
Would rest upon his hair. 

^ Lethe: A river in the lower world from which the shades 
drank and obtained forgetfulness of the past. 



258 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 



AWAY DOWN HOME 

BY JOHN CHARLES McNEILL 

'T WILL not be long before they hear 

The buUbat on the hill, 
And in the valley through the dusk 

The pastoral whippoorwill. 
A few more friendly suns will call 

The bluets through the loam, 
And star the lanes with buttercups 
Away down home. 

"Knee-deep!" from reedy places 

Will sing the river frogs. 
The terrapins will sun themselves 

On all the jutting logs. 
The angler's cautious oar will leave 

A trail of drifting foam 

Along the shady currents 

Away down home. 

The mocking-bird will feel again 

The glory of his wings, 
And wanton through the balmy air 

And sunshine while he sings. 
With a new cadence in his call, 

The glint-wing'd crow will roam 
From field to newly furrowed field 
Away down home. 

From Songs, Merry and Sad. By permission of Stone, Barringer and 
Company. 



AWAY DOWN HOME 259 

\^Tien dogwood blossoms mingle 

With the maple's modest red, 
And sweet arbutus wakes at last 

From out her winter's bed, 
'T would not seem strange at all to meet 

A dryad or a gnome. 
Or Pan^ or Psyche^ in the woods 
Away down home. 

Then come with me, thou weary heart! 

Forget thy brooding ills. 

Since God has come to walk among 

His valleys and his hills! 
The mart will never miss thee. 

Nor the scholar's dusty tome. 
And the Mother waits to bless thee, 
Away down home. 

^ The Greek god of the shepherds. 

2 The Greek personification of the human soul. 



260 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

TAMPA ROBINS 

BY SIDNEY LANIER 

The robin laughed in the orange-tree: 
*'Ho, windy North, a fig for thee: 
While breasts are red and wings are bold 
And green trees wave us globes of gold, 
Time's scythe shall reap but bliss for me 
— Sunlight, song, and the orange-tree. 

"Burn, golden globes in leafy sky, 
My orange-planets: crimson I 
Will shine and shoot among the spheres 
(Blithe meteor that no mortal fears) 
And thrid ^ the heavenly orange-tree 
With orbits bright of minstrelsy. 

"If that I hate wild winter's spite — 
The gibbet trees, the world in white, 
The sky but gray wind over a grave — 
Why should I ache, the season's slave? 

I'll sing from the top of the orange-tree, 

Gramercy,"^ winter's tyranny. 

"I'll south with the sun, and keep my clime; 
My wing is king of the summer-time; 
My breast to the sun his torch shall hold; 
And I'll call down through the green and gold, 
Time, take thy scythe, reap bliss for me, 
Bestir thee under the orange-tree." 

^ Thread. ^ Have mercy. 

From Poems of Sidney Lanier. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



THE WHIPPOORWILL 261 

THE WHIPPOORWILL 

BY MADISON CAWEIN 

Above long woodland ways that led 
To dells the stealthy twilights tread 
The west was hot geranium-red; 

And still, and still, 
Along old lanes, the locusts sow 
With clustered curls the May-times know, 
Out of the crimson afterglow. 
We heard the homeward cattle low. 
And then the far-off, far-off woe 

Of " whippoorwill ! " of ''whippoorwill!" 

Beneath the idle beechen boughs 
We heard the cow-bells of the cows 
Come slowly jangling toward the house, 

And still, and still, 
Beyond the light that would not die 
Out of the scarlet-haunted sky. 
Beyond the evening star's white eye 
Of glittering chalcedony,^ 
Drained out of dusk the plaintive cry 

Of ''whippoorwill!" of " whippoorwill ! " 

What is there in the moon, that swims 
A naked bosom o'er the limbs. 
That all the wood with magic dims? 
While still, while still, 

^ A variety of quartz. 
From Red Leaves and Roses. By permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons. 



262 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Among the trees whose shadows grope 
IMicl ferns and flowers the dewdrops ope, — 
Lost in faint deeps of hehotrope 
Above the clover-scented slope, — 
Retreats, despairing past all hope. 
The whippoorwill, the whippoorwill. 



TO THE MOCKING-BIRD 

BY ALBERT PIKE 

Thou glorious mocker of the world! I hear 
Thy many voices ringing through the glooms 

Of these green solitudes; and all the clear. 

Bright joyance of their song enthralls the ear, 
And floods the heart. Over the sphered tombs 

Of vanished nations rolls thy music-tide; 
No light from History's starlit page illumes 

The memory of these nations; they have died: 

None care for them but thou; and thou mayst sing 
O'er me, perhaps, as now thy clear notes ring 

Over their bones by whom thou once wast deified. 

Glad scorner of all cities! Thou dost leave 
The world's mad turmoil and incessant din, 

Where none in other's honesty believe. 

Where the old sigh, the young turn gray and grieve, 
\Miere misery gnaws the maiden's heart within: 

Thou fleest far into the dark green woods, 

^Vhere, with thy flood of music, thou canst win 



TO THE MOCKING-BIRD 263 

Their heart to harmony, and where intrudes 
No discord on thy melodies. Oh, where, 
Among the sweet musicians of the air. 

Is one so dear as thou to these old solitudes? 



Ha! what a burst was that! The aeolian strain 
Goes floating through the tangled passages 

Of the still woods, and now it comes again, 

A multitudinous melody, — like a rain 
Of glassy music under echoing trees, 

Close by a ringing lake. It wraps the soul 
With a bright harmony of happiness. 

Even as a gem is wrapped when round it roll 
Thin waves of crimson flame; till we become 
With the excess of perfect pleasure, dumb. 

And pant like a swift runner clinging to the goal. 

I cannot love the man who doth not love. 
As men love light, the song of happy birds; 

For the first visions that my boy heart wove 

To fill its sleep with were that I did rove 

Through the fresh woods, what time the snowy herds 

Of morning clouds shrunk from the advancing sun 
Into the depths of Heaven's blue heart, as words 

From the Poet's lips float gently, one by one, 
And vanish in the human heart; and then 
I revelled in such songs, and sorrowed when. 

With noon heat overwrought, the music gush was done. 

I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee, 

Amid the eloquent grandeur of these shades, 
Alone with nature, — but it may not be; 
I have to struggle with the stormy sea 



264 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Of human life until existence fades 
Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar 

Through the thick woods and shadow-checkered 
glades, 
While pain and sorrow cast no dimness o'er 

The brilliance of thy heart; but I must wear, 

As now, my garments of regret and care, — 
As penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore. 

Yet why complain ? What though fond hopes deferred 
Have overshadowed Life's green paths with gloom? 

Content's soft music is not all unheard; 

There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird, 
To welcome me within my humble home; 

There is an eye, with love's devotion bright. 
The darkness of existence to illume. 

Then why complain? When Death shall cast his 
blight 
Over the spirit, my cold bones shall rest 
Beneath these trees; and from thy swelling breast 

Over them pour thy song, like a rich flood of light. 



ALABAMA 265 



ALABAMA 

BY SAMUEL MINTURN PECK 

Why shines the moon so wan and white? 
Why drift the shades so thick to-night 
Beneath the winds that wail in flight 

Across the sobbing foam? 
I watched the happy swallows flee 
Beyond the lurid autumn sea; 
They fled and left the gloom to me, 

Far — far from home. 

Know'st thou that balmy Southern land. 
By myrtle crowned, by zephyrs fanned, 
Where verdant hills and forests grand 

Smile 'neath an azure dome? 
'Tis there the stars shed softer beams 
As if to bless the woods and streams; 
'Tis there I wander in my dreams. 

Far — far from home. 

I long to hear the murmuring pine. 
To see the golden jasmine twine. 
For there my fancy builds her shrine 

Where'er my footsteps roam. 
O sunny land, for thy sweet sake 
A thousand tender memories wake; 
For thee my heart is like to break. 

Far — far from home. 

From Cap and Bells. By permission of the Frederick A. Stokes 
Company. 



266 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

THE GRAPEVINE SWING 

BY SAMUEL MINTURN PECK 

When I was a boy on the old plantation, 

Down by the deep bayou, 
The fairest spot of all creation, 

tinder the arching blue; 
When the wind came over the cotton and corn, 

To the long slim loop I'd spring 
With brown feet bare, and a hat-brim torn, 

And swing in the grapevine swing. 

Swinging in the grapevine swing. 
Laughing where the wild birds sing, 

I dream and sigh 

For the days gone by 
Swinging in the grapevine swing. 

Out — o'er the w^ater-lilies bonny and bright. 

Back — to the moss-grown trees; 
I shouted and laughed with a heart as light 

As a wild rose tossed by the breeze. 
The mocking-bird joined in my reckless glee, 

I longed for no angel's wing, 
I was just as near heaven as I wanted to be 

Swinging in the grapevine swing. 

Swinging in the grapevine swing. 
Laughing where the wild birds sing, — 

Oh, to be a boy 

With a heart full of joy, 
Swinging in the grapevine swing! 

From Rings and Love-knots. Fourth edition. By permission of the 
Frederick A. Stokes Company. 



THE GRAPEVINE SWING 267 

I'm weary at noon, I'm weary at night, 

I'm fretted and sore of heart. 
And care is sowing my locks with white 

As I wend through the fevered mart. 
I'm tired of the world with its pride and pomp, 

And fame seems a worthless thing. 
I'd barter it all for one day's romp. 

And a swing in the grapevine swing. 

Swinging in the grapevine swing. 
Laughing where the wild birds sing, 

I would I were away 

From the world to-day, 
Swinging in the grapevine swing. 



TRIBUTES TO SOUTHERN HEROES 

VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY 

BY FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 

The Knightliest of the Knightly race, 

That since the days of old 
Have kept the lamp of chivalry 

Alight in hearts of gold. 
The kindliest of the kindly band 

That, rarely hating ease, 
Yet rode with Raleigh^ round the land, 

With Smith^ around the seas. 

\Mio climbed the blue embattled hills 

Against uncounted foes, 
And planted there, in valleys fair. 

The Lily and the Rose! 
^^^lose fragrance lives in many lands, 

^Miose beauty stars the earth; 
And lights the hearths of happy homes 

With loveliness and worth! 

We thought they slept! the men who kept 

The names of noble sires, 
And slumbered while the darkness crept 

Around their vigil fires! 

Sir Walter Raleigh. ^ Captain John Smith. 

268 



THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 269 

But aye the golden horseshoe ^ Knights 

Their Old Dominion keep, 
Whose foes have found enchanted ground, 

But not a knight asleep. 



THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD ' 

BY THEODORE O'HARA 

The muflfled drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo; 
No more on life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 
On Fame's eternal camping-ground 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And Glory guards, with solemn round, 

The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind; 
No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind; 

* It is a tradition that the gentlemen who accompanied Gov- 
ernor Spotswood, of Virginia, in his expedition across the Blue 
Ridge Mountains, in 1716, received from him upon their return, 
golden horseshoes as souvenirs of the journey, and are therefore 
called Knights of the Golden Horseshoe. 

^ This poem was written on the occasion of bringing home the 
bodies of the Kentucky soldiers killed in the battle of Buena 
Vista, in the Mexican war. 

The Bivouac of the Dead is emblazoned on a monument on the 
Crimean battlefield, and appears over the gate of the National 
Cemetery, Arlington, at Washington, and on slabs along the drive- 
ways of several other national cemeteries. 



270 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

No vision of the morrow's strife 
The warrior's dream alarms; 

No braying horn nor screaming fife 
At dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust, 

Their plumed heads are bowed; 
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 

Is now their martial shroud. 
And plenteous funeral tears have washed 

The red stains from each brow, 
And the proud forms, by battle gashed, 

Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 

The bugle's stirring blast. 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 

The din and shout, are past; 
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that nevermore may feel 

The rapture of the fight. 

Like the fierce northern hurricane 

That sweeps this great plateau. 
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, 

Came down the serried foe. 
^Mio heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o'er the field beneath. 
Knew well the watchword of that day 

Was *' Victory or death." 

Long has the doubtful conflict raged 
O'er all that stricken plain, 

For never fiercer fight had waged 
The vengeful blood of Spain; 



THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 271 

And still the storm of battle blew, 

Still swelled the gory tide; 
Not long, our stout old chieftain^ knew, 

Such odds his strength could bide. 

'Twas in that hour his stern command 

Called to a martyr's grave 
The flower of his beloved band 

The nation's flag to save. 
By rivers of their fathers' gore 

His first-born laurels grew, 
And well he deemed the sons would pour 

Their lives for glory too. 

Full many a norther's breath has swept 

O'er Angostura's^ plain. 
And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above its mouldering slain. 
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 

Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
Alone awakes each sullen height 

That frowned o'er that dread fray. 

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground,^ 

Ye must not slumber there. 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air. 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be your fitter grave; 
She claims from War his richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. 

* General Zachary Taylor. 

2 A pass near Buena Vista, occupied by a portion of the Ameri- 
can army. 

^"Kentucky," which is an Indian word, means "dark and 
bloody ground." 



272 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 

Far from the gorv field; 
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 

On many a bloodv shield; 
The sunlight of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here, 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The heroes' sepulchre. 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, 

Dear as the blood ye gave. 
No impious footstep here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave. 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 

^Miile Fame her record keeps, 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 

^Miere Valor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 

In deathless song shall tell, 
\Mien many a vanished age hath flown. 

The storv how ve fell; 
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 

Nor Time's remorseless doom, 
Shall dim one ray of glory's light 

That gilds your glorious tomb. 



ODE 273 



ODE^ 

BY HENRY TIMROD 

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, 
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause; 

Though yet no marble column craves 
The pilgrim here to pause. 

In seeds of laurel in the earth 

The blossom of your fame is blown, 

And somewhere, waiting for its birth. 
The shaft is in the stone! 

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 

Which keep in trust your storied tombs, 

Behold! your sisters bring their tears, 
And these memorial blooms. 

Small tributes! but your shades will smile 
More proudly on these wreaths to-day, 

Than when some cannon-moulded pile 
Shall overlook this bay. 

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! 

There is no holier spot of ground 
Than where defeated valor lies, 

By mourning beauty crowned! 

* Sung on the occasion of decorating the graves of the Con- 
federate dead, at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, South Carolina, 
1867. 

By permission of the B. F. Johnson Company. 



274 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

JOHN PELHAM* 

BY JAMES RYDER RANDALL 

Just as the spring came laughing through the strife, 

With all its gorgeous cheer, 
In the bright April of historic life 

Fell the great cannoneer. 

The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath 

His bleeding country weeps; 
Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death 

Our Young Marcellus^ sleeps. 

Nobler and grander than the child of Rome 

Curbing his chariot steeds. 
The knightly scion of a Southern home 

Dazzled the land with deeds. 

^ "Pelham was born in Calhoun County, Alabama, about 1841, 
and was a lad at West Point when the Civil War broke out. He 
was commissioned first lieutenant of artillery, and did so well 
that General ' Jeb ' Stuart secured permission for him ' to recruit 
a battery of horse artillery to be attached to the cavalry.' His 
services were highly commended by Jackson, Longstreet, and 
Lee, and he was specially distinguished by his skill and daring at 
the battle of Fredericksburg, winning from Lee the sobriquet 
of 'the gallant Pelham.' He was killed at the cavalry fight 
at Kelly's Ford, March 17, 1863, and his death caused profound 
grief throughout the army. His body lay in state for two days 
in the Capitol at Richmond, and his promotion to be lieutenant- 
colonel was allowed to take effect after his death — a rare honor. 
He was only twenty-two, but Lee and Stuart praised him as 
though he were a scarred veteran, and all felt that the praise was 
deserved." — Trent's Southern Writers. 

^ The son-in-law of Augustus Caesar, and son of his sister, 
Octavia; selected by Augustus as his successor, but died B. C. 
23; immortalized by Vergil in the jEneid, book VI, lines 860-886. 

By permission of the John JVIurphy Company. 



JOHN PELHAM 275 

Gentlest and bravest in the battle brunt — 

The Champion of the Truth — 
He bore his banner to the very front 

Of our immortal youth. 

A clang of sabres mid Virginian snow, 

The fiery pang of shells, — 
And there's a wail of immemorial woe 

In Alabama dells: 

The pennon droops that led the sacred band 

Along the crimson field; 
The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand, 

Over the spotless shield. 

We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face. 

While, round the lips and eyes, 
Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the grace 

Of a divine surprise. 

O mother of a blessed soul on high. 

Thy tears may soon be shed! 
Think of thy boy, with princes of the sky, 

Among the Southern dead. 

How must he smile on this dull world beneath, 

Fevered with swift renown, — 
He, with the martyr's amaranthine^ wreath. 

Twining the victor's crown! 

* Undying. 



276 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

ASHB Y ' 
BY JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 

To the brave all homage render, 

Weep, ye skies of June! 
With a radiance pure and tender, 

Shine, oh saddened moon! 
*'Dead upon the field of glory," 
Hero fit for song and story, 

Lies our bold dragoon. 

Well they learned, whose hands have slain him. 

Braver, knightlier foe 
Never fought with Moor nor Paynim,^ 

Rode at Templestowe,^ 
With a mien how high and joyous, 
'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us 

Went he forth we know. 

Never more, alas! shall sabre 

Gleam around his crest; 
Fought his fight; fulfilled his labor; 

Stilled his manly breast. 
All unheard sweet Nature's cadence. 
Trump of fame and voice of maidens, 

Now he takes his rest. 

^ Turner Ashby, of Virginia (1824-62), a brilliant cavalry 
general of the Confederate army, fought under Stonewall Jack- 
son in the Valley of Virginia. He was killed near Harrisonburg, 
Virginia, June 6, 1862. 

^ Pagan. 

' See Ivanhoe, chap, xliii. 



ASHBY 277 

Earth, that all too soon hath bound him. 

Gently wrap his clay; 
Linger lovingly around him, 

Light of dying day; 
Softly fall the summer showers; 
Birds and bees among the flowers 

Make the gloom seem gay. 

There, throughout the coming ages, 

When his sword is rust. 
And his deeds in classic pages, 

Mindful of her trust. 
Shall Virginia, bending lowly, 
Still a ceaseless vigil holy 

Keep above his dust! 



278 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POEIRY 

A GRAVE IN HOLLYWOOD CEME- 
TERY, RICHMOND^ 

BY MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON 

I READ the marble-lettered name, 

And half in bitterness I said, 
"As Dante from Ravenna^ came. 

Our poet came from exile — dead." 
And yet, had it been asked of him 

Where he would rather lay his head, 
This spot he would have chosen. Dim 
The city's hum drifts o'er his grave. 
And green above the hollies wave 
Their jagged leaves, as when a boy, 
On blissful summer afternoons. 
He came to sing the birds his runes, 
And tell the river of his joy. 

Who dreams that in his wanderings wide 
By stern misfortunes tossed and driven, 
His soul's electric strands were riven 
From home and country? Let betide 
What might, what would, his boast, his pride. 
Was in his stricken mother-land, 

That could but bless and bid him go, 
Because no crust was in her hand 

To stay her children's need. We know 

^ The poem is in memory of the poet, John Reuben Thompson, 
who wrote the poem preceding this one. 

2 The Itahan poet, Dante, was exiled from Florence and died in 
Ravenna. Thompson was "exiled " by poor health. 
By permission of the Houghton Mifflin Company. 



THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE 279 

The mystic cable sank too deep 

For surface storm or stress to strain, 

Or from his answering heart to keep 
The spark from flashing back again! 

Think of the thousand mellow rhymes, 

The pure idyllic passion-flowers, 
Wherewith, in far-gone, happier times, 

He garlanded this South of ours. 
Proven9al-like,^ he wandered long. 

And sang at many a stranger's board. 
Yet 'twas Virginia's name that poured 
The tenderest pathos through his song. 
We owe the Poet praise and tears. 

Whose ringing ballad ^ sends the brave. 
Bold Stuart riding down the years. 

What have we given him? Just a grave! 



THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE 

BY ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN 

Forth from its scabbard pure and bright 

Flashed the sword of Lee! 
Far in the front of the deadly fight. 
High o'er the brave in the cause of Right, 
Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light. 

Led us to victory. 

^ Like one of the troubadours of Provence, France. 
^ Reference is here made to Thompson's poem on General Jeb 
Stuart, entitled The Death of Stuart. 

By permission of P. J. Kenedy and Sons. 



280 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Out of its scabbard, where, full long, 

It slumbered peacefully. 
Roused from its rest by the battle's song, 
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, 
Guarding the right, avenging the wrong, 

Gleamed the sword of Lee. 

Forth from its scabbard, high in air 

Beneath Virginia's sky; 
And they who saw it gleaming there, 
And knew who bore it, knelt to swear 
That where that sword led they would dare 

To follow — and to die. 

Out of its scabbard! Never hand 

Waved sword from stain as free, 
Nor purer sword led braver band. 
Nor braver bled for a brighter land. 
Nor brighter land had a cause so grand, 
Nor cause a chief like Lee! 

Forth from its scabbard! how we prayed 

That sword might victor be; 
And when our triumph was delayed. 
And many a heart grew sore afraid. 
We still hoped on while gleamed the blade 
Of noble Robert Lee. 

Forth from its scabbard all in vain, 
Forth flashed the sword of Lee; 

'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, 

It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, 

Defeated, yet without a stain. 
Proudly and peacefully. 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE 

CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN THE 
QUARTERS ' 

BY IRWIN RUSSELL 

When merry Christmas day is done, 
And Christmas night is just begun; 
While clouds in slow procession drift, 
To wish the moon-man ''Christmas gift," 
Yet linger overhead, to know 
What causes all the stir below; 
At Uncle Johnny Booker's ball 
The darkies hold high carnival. 
From all the country side they throng. 
With laughter, shouts, and scraps of song, — 
Their whole deportment plainly showing 
That to the Frolic they are going. 
Some take the path with shoes in hand, 
To traverse muddy bottom-land; 
Aristocrats their steeds bestride; 
Four on a mule, behold them ride! 
And ten great oxen draw apace 
The wagon from "de oder place," 
With forty guests, whose conversation 
Betokens glad anticipation. 

^ Irwin Russell is considered by many critics to be the first 
writer to appreciate the literary possibilities of the negro. 
By permission of The Century Company. 
281 



282 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Not so with him who drives: old Jim 

Is sagely solemn, hard, and grim. 

And frolics have no joys for him. 

He seldom speaks but to condemn — 

Or utter some wise apothegm — 

Or else, some crabbed thought pursuing, 

Talk to his team, as now he's doing: 

Come up heah. Star! Yee-bawee! 

You alluz is a-laggin' — 
Mus' be you think I's dead. 

An' dis de huss you's draggin' — 
You's mos' too lazy to draw yo' bref, 

Let 'lone drawin' de waggin. 

Dis team — quit bel'rin, sah! 

De ladies don't submit 'at — 
Dis team — you ol' fool ox. 

You heah me tell you quit 'at? 
Dis team's des like de 'Nited States; 

Dafs what I's tryin' to git at! 

De people rides behin', 

De poUytishners haulin' — 
Sh'u'd be a well-bruk ox, 

To foller dat ar callin' — 
An' sometimes nuflSn won't do dem steers, 

But what dey mus' be stallin'! 

Woo bahgh! Buck-kannon! Yes, sah, 
Sometimes dey will be stiokin'; 

An' den, fus thing dey knows, 
Dey takes a rale good lickin'. 

De folks gits down: an' den watch out 
For hommerin' an' kickin'. 



CHRISTMAS NIGHT L\ THE QUARTERS 283 

Dey blows upon dey hands, 
Den flings 'em wid de nails up, 

Jumps up an' cracks dey heels, 
An' pruzendy dey sails up, 

An' makes dem oxen hump deysef, 
By twistin' all dey tails up! 

In this our age of printer's ink 

'Tis books that show us how to think — 

The rule reversed, and set at naught. 

That held that books were born of thought. 

We form our minds by pedants' rules. 

And all we know is from the schools; 

And when we work, or when we play, 

We do it in an ordered way — 

And Nature's self pronounce a ban on, 

Whene'er she dares transgress a canon. 

Untrammelled thus the simple race is 

That ''wuks the craps" on cotton places. 

Original in act and thought. 

Because unlearned and untaught. 

Observe them at their Christmas party: 

How unrestrained their mirth — how hearty! 

How many things they say and do 

That never would occur to you! 

See Brudder Brown — whose saving grace 

Would sanctify a quarter-race — 

Out on the crowded floor advance, 

To ''beg a blessin' on dis dance." 

O Mahsr! let dis gath'rin' fin' a blessin' in yo' sight, 
Don't jedge us hard fur what we does — you knows it's 

Christmas night; 
An' all de balunce ob de yeah we does as right's we kin. 
Ef dancin's wrong, O Mahsr! let de time excuse de sin! 



284 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

We labors in de vineya'd, wukin' hard an' wukin' 

true; 
Now, shorely you won't notus, ef we eats a grape or 

two, 
An' takes a leetle holiday, — a leetle restin'-spell, — 
Bekase, nex' week, we'll start in fresh, an' labor twicet 

as well. 

Remember, Mahsr, — min' dis, now, — de sinfulness 

ob sin 
Is 'pendin' 'pon de sperrit what we goes an' does it 

in: 
An' in a righchis frame ob min' we's gwine to dance 

an' sing, 
A-feelin' like King David, when he cut de pigeon 

wing. 

It seems to me — indeed it do — I mebbe mout be 

wrong — 
That people raly ought to dance, when Chrismus comes 

along; 
Des dance bekase dey's happy — like de birds hops in 

de trees, 
De pine-top fiddle soundin' to de bowin' ob de breeze. 

We has no ark to dance afore, like Isrul's prophet 

king; 
We has no harp to soun' de chords, to holp us out to 

sing; 
But 'cordin' to de gif's we has we does de bes' we 

knows ; 
Aji' folks don't 'spise de vi'let flower bekase it ain't de 

rose, 



CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 285 

You bless us, please, sah, eben ef we's doin' wrong to- 
night; 

Kase den we'll need de blessin' more'n ef we's doin' 
right; 

An' Jet de blessin' stay wid us, untel we comes to 
die, 

An' goes to keep our Chrismus wid dem sheriffs in de 
sky! 

Yes, tell dem preshis anguls we's a-gwine to jine 'em 

soon: 
Our voices we's a-trainin' fur to sing de glory tune; 
We's ready when you wants us, an' it ain't no matter 

when — 
O Mahsr! call yo' chillen soon, an' take 'em home! 

Amen. 

The rev'rend man is scarcely through, 
When all the noise begins anew, 
And with such force assaults the ears, 
That through the din one hardly hears 
Old fiddling Josey ''sound his A," 
Correct the pitch, begin to play. 
Stop, satisfied, then, with the bow, 
Rap out the signal dancers know: 

Git yo^ pardners, fust kwattillion! 
Stomp yo' feet, an' raise 'em high; 
Tune is: ''Oh! dat water-million! 
Gwine to git to home bime bye." 
Salute yd' "pardners! — scrape perlitely — 
Don't be bumpin' 'gin de res' — 
Balance all! — now step out rightly; 
Alluz dance yo' lebbel bes', 



286 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Fo'wa'd foah! — whoop up, niggers! 
Back ag'in! — don't be so slow! — 
Swing cornahs! — min' de figgers! 
When I hollers, den yo' go. 
Top ladies cross ober! 
Hoi' on, till I takes a dram — 
Gemmen solo! — yes, 7'^ sober — 
Cain't say how de fiddle am. 
Hands around! — hoi' up yo' faces, 
Don't be lookin' at yo' feet! 
Swing yo' pardners to yo' places! 
Dat's de way — dat's hard to beat. 
Sides jo'w'd! — when you's ready — 
Make a bow as low's you kin! 
Swing acrost wid opposite lady! 
Now we'll let you swap ag'in: 
Ladies change! — shet up dat talkin'; 
Do yo' talkin' arter while! 
Right an' lef! — don't want no walkin' — 
Make yo' steps, an' show yo' style! 

And so the "set" proceeds — its length 
Determined by the dancers' strength; 
And all agree to yield the palm 
For grace and skill to "Georgy Sam," 
Who stamps so hard, and leaps so high, 
"Des watch him!" is the wond'ring cry — 
"De nigger mus' be, for a fac', 
Own cousin to a jumpin'-jack!" 
On, on the restless fiddle sounds, 
Still chorused by the curs and hounds; 
Dance after dance succeeding fast, 
Till supper is announced at last. 



CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 287 

That scene — but why attempt to show it? 
The most inventive modern poet, 
In fine new words whose hope and trust is, 
Could form no phrase to do it justice! 
When supper ends — that is not soon — 
The fiddle strikes the same old tune; 
The dancers pound the floor again, 
With all they have of might and main; 
Old gossips, almost turning pale. 
Attend Aunt Cassy's grewsome tale 
Of conjurers, and ghosts, and devils. 
That in the smoke-house hold their revels; 
Each drowsy baby droops his head. 
Yet scorns the very thought of bed: — 
So wears the night, and wears so fast. 
All wonder when they find it past. 
And hear the signal sound to go 
From what few cocks are left to crow. 
Then, one and all, you hear them shout: 
"Hi! Booker! fotch de banjo out. 
An' gib us one song 'fore we goes — 
One ob de berry bes' you knows!" 
Responding to the welcome call. 
He takes the banjo from the wall. 
And tunes the strings with skill and care, 
Then strikes them with a master's air. 
And tells, in melody and rhyme, 
This legend of the olden time: 

Go 'way, fiddle ! folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawk- 

in'. 
Keep silence fur yo' betters! — don't you heah de banjo 

talkin' ? 



288 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

About de possum's tail she's gwine to lecter — ladies, 
listen! — 

About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is miss- 
in': 

''Dar's gwine to be a oberflow," said Noah, lookin' 

solemn — 
Fur Noah tuk the Herald, an' he read de ribber 

column — 
An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl'arin' timber-patches. 
An' 'lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat the 

steamah Natchez. 

OF Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin'. 
An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' an' a- 

pshawin' ; 
But Noah didn't min' 'em, knowin' whut wuz gwine to 

happen : 
An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'. 

Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o' 

beas'es — 
Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces! 
He had a Morgan colt an' sebral head o' Jarsey cat- 

de— 
An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon's he heered de 

thunder rattle. 

Den sech anoder fall ob rain! — it come so awful hebby, 
De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee; 
De people all wuz drownded out — 'cep' Noah an' de 

critters, 
An' men he'd hired to work de boat — an' one to mix 

de bitters. 



CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 289 

De Ark she kep* a-sailin' an' a-sailin' an' a-sailin'; 
De lion got his dander up, an' Hke to bruk de palin' ; 
De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tell, whut wid 

all de fussin'. 
You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' 'roun an' 

cussin'. 

Now, Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de 
packet. 

Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de 
racket; 

An' so, fur to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood 
an' bent it, 

An' soon he had a banjo made — de fust dat wuz in- 
vented. 

He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an' 

screws an' aprin; 
An' fitted in a proper neck — 'twuz berry long an' 

tap'rin'; 
He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it; 
An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to 

string it? 

De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin'; 
De ha'r's so long an' thick an' strong, — des fit fur 

banjo stringin'; 
Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as wash-day-dinner 

graces ; 
An' sorted ob 'em by de size, f'om little E's to basses. 

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig, — 'twuz *'Neb- 

ber min' de wedder," — 
She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder; 



290 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Some went to pattin'; some to dancin': Noah called 

de figgers; 
An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob 

niggers ! 

Now, sence dat time — it's mighty strange — dere's not 

de sHghtes' showin' 
Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin'; 
An' curi's, too, dat nigger's ways: his people nebber 

los' 'em — 
Fur whar you finds de nigger — dar's de banjo an' de 

'possum ! 

The night is spent; and as the day 
Throws up the first faint flash of gray, 
The guests pursue their homeward way; 
And through the field beyond the gin. 
Just as the stars are going in. 
See Santa Claus departing — grieving — 
His own dear Land of Cotton leaving. 
His work is done; he fain would rest 
Where people know and love him best. 
He pauses, listens, looks about; 
But go he must: his pass is out. 
So, coughing down the rising tears, 
He climbs the fence and disappears. 
And thus observes a colored youth 
(The common sentiment, in sooth): 
"Oh! what a blessin' 'tw'u'd ha' been, 
Ef Santy had been born a twin! 
We'd hab two Chrismuses a yeah — 
Or p'r'aps one brudder'd settle heah!" 



MUSIC IN CAMP 291 

MUSIC IN CAMP 

BY JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 

Two armies covered hill and plain, 

Where Rappahannock's waters 
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain 

Of battle's recent slaughters. 

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents 

In meads of heavenly azure; 
And each dread gun of the elements 

Slept in its embrasure. 

The breeze so softly blew, it made 

No forest leaf to quiver. 
And the smoke of the random cannonade 

Rolled slowly from the river. 

And now, where circling hills looked down 

With cannon grimly planted, 
O'er listless camp and silent town 

The golden sunset slanted. 

When on the fervid air there came 

A strain — now rich, now tender; 
The music seemed itself aflame 

With day's departing splendor. 

A Federal band, which, eve and morn, 
Played measures brave and nimble. 

Had just struck up, with flute and horn 
And lively clash of cymbal. 



292 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks, 
Till, margined by its pebbles, 

One wooded shore was blue with ''Yanks," 
And one was gray with ''Rebels." 

Then all was still, and then the band, 
With movement light and tricksy. 

Made stream and forest, hill and strand. 
Reverberate with "Dixie." 

The conscious stream with burnished glow 
Went proudly o'er its pebbles. 

But thrilled throughout its deepest flow 
With yelling of the Rebels. 

Again a pause, and then again 
The trumpets pealed sonorous. 

And "Yankee Doodle" was the strain 
To which the shore gave chorus. 

The laughing ripple shorew^ard flew. 

To kiss the shining pebbles; 
Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue 

Defiance to the Rebels. 

And yet once more the bugle sang 

Above the stormy riot; 
No shout upon the evening rang — 

There reigned a holy quiet. 

The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood 
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles; 

All silent now the Yankees stood. 
And silent stood the Rebels. 



MUSIC IN CAMP 293 

No unresponsive soul had heard 

That plaintive note's appealing, 
So deeply ''Home, Sweet Home" had stirred 

The hidden founts of feeling. 

Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees 

As by the wand of fairy. 
The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees, 

The cabin by the prairie. 

Or cold, or warm, his native skies 

Bend in their beauty o'er him; 
Seen through the tear mist in his eyes, 

His loved ones stand before him. 

A^ fades the iris^ after rain 

In April's tearful weather. 
The vision vanished, as the strain 

And daylight died together. 

But memory, waked by music's art, 

Expressed in simplest numbers. 
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart, 

Made light the Rebel's slumbers. 

And fair the form of Music shines, 

That bright celestial creature. 
Who still, 'mid war's embattled lines, 

Gave this one touch of Nature. 

^ Rainbow. 



294 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

THE REVENGE OF HAMISH 

BY SIDNEY LANIER 

It was three slim does and a ten-tined ^ buck in the 
bracken lay;^ 
And all of a sudden the sinister smell of a man, 
Awaft on a wind-shift, wavered and ran 
Down the hill-side and sifted along through the bracken 
and passed that way. 

Then Nan got a-tremble at nostril; she was the dain- 
tiest doe; 
In the print of her velvet flank on the velvet fern 
She reared, and rounded her ears in turn. 
Then the buck leapt up, and his head as a king^s to 
a crown did go 

Full high in the breeze, and he stood as if Death had 
the form of a deer; 
And the two slim does long lazily stretching arose. 
For their day-dream slowlier came to a close. 
Till they woke and were still, breath-bound with wait- 
ing and w^onder and fear. 

Then Alan the huntsman sprang over the hillock, the 

hounds shot by, 

The does and the ten-tined buck made a marvellous 

bound, 

The hounds swept after with never a sound, 

But Alan loud winded his horn in sign that the quarry 

was nigh. 

^ Ten-pronged. 

^ A thick undergrowth of fern or willow. 
From Poems of Sidney Lanier. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



THE REVENGE OF HAMISH 295 

For at dawn of that day proud Maclean of Lochbuy 
to the hunt had waxed wild, 
And he cursed at old Alan till Alan fared off with the 

hounds 
For to drive him the deer to the lower glen grounds : 
"I will kill a red deer," quoth Maclean, "in the sight 
of the wife and the child." 

So gayly he paced with the wife and the child to his 
chosen stand; ^ 

But he hurried tall Hamish the .henchman ahead: 

"Go turn,"— 
Cried Maclean — "if the deer seek to cross to the 
burn,^ 
Do thou turn them to me: nor fail, lest thy back be 
red as thy hand." 

Now hard-fortuned Hamish, half blown of his breath 
with the height of the hill, 
Was white in the face when the ten-tined buck and 

the does 
Drew leaping to burn- ward; huskily rose 
His shouts, and his nether lip twitched, and his legs 
were o'er-weak for his will. 

So the deer darted lightly by Hamish and bounded 
away to the burn. 
But Maclean never bating his watch tarried waiting 

below. 
Still Hamish hung heavy with fear for to go 
All the space of an hour; then he went, and his face 
was greenish and stern, 

^ A small stream. 



296 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

And his eye sat back in the socket, and shrunken the 
eyeballs shone, 
As withdrawn from a vision of deeds it were shame 

to see. 
" Now, now, grim henchman, what is't with thee?'* 
Brake Maclean, and his wrath rose red as a beacon 
the wind hath upblown. 

*' Three does and a ten-tined buck made out," spoke 
Hamish, full mild, 
*'Ajid I ran for to turn, but my breath it was blown, 

and they passed; 
I was weak, for ye called ere I broke me my fast." 
Cried Maclean: ''Now a ten-tined buck in the sight of 
the wife and the child 

"I had killed if the gluttonous kern^ had not wrought 
me a snail's own wrong!" 
Then he sounded, and down came kinsmen and clans- 
men all: 
''Ten blows, for ten tine, on his back let fall. 
And reckon no stroke if the blood follow not at the bite 
of thong!" 

So Hamish made bare, and took him his strokes; at 
the last he smiled. 
"Now I'll to the burn," quoth Maclean, "for it still 

may be. 
If a slimmer-paunched henchman will hurry with 
me, 
I shall kill me the ten-tined buck for a gift to the wife 
and the child!" 

^ An irregular soldier; in this case merely a term of reproach 
meaning an idler. 



THE REVENGE OF HAMISH 297 

Then the clansmen departed, by this path and that; 
and over the hill 
Sped Maclean with an outward wrath for an inward 

shame; 
And that place of the lashing full quiet became; 
And the wife and the child stood sad; and blood v- 
backed Hamish sat still. 



But look! red Hamish has risen; quick about and 
about turns he. 
*' There is none betwixt me and the crag top!" he 

screams under breath. 
Then, livid as Lazarus lately from death, 
He snatches the child from the mother, and clambers 
the crag toward the sea. 

Now the mother drops breath; she is dumb, and her 
heart goes dead for a space, 
Till the motherhood, mistress of death, shrieks, 

shrieks through the glen. 
And that place of the lashing is live with men. 
And Maclean, and the gillie^ that told him, dash up in 
a desperate race. 

Not a breath's time for asking; an eye glance reveals 
all the tale untold. 
They follow mad Hamish afar up the crag toward 

the sea, 
And the lady cries: "Clansmen, run for a fee! — 
Yon castle and lands to the two first hands that shall 
hook him and hold 

* Gillie: An attendant, man-servant. 



298 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Fast Hamish back from the brink!" — and ever she 
flies up the steep, 
And the clansmen pant, and they sweat, and they 

jostle and strain. 
But, mother, 'tis vain; but, father, 'tis vain; 
Stern Hamish stands bold on the brink, and dangles the 
child o'er the deep. 



Now a faintness falls on the men that run, and they all 
stand still. 
And the wife prays Hamish as if he were God, on 

her knees. 
Crying: "Hamish! O Hamish! but please, but 
please 
For to spare him!" and Hamish still dangles the child, 
with a wavering will. 

On a sudden he turns; with a sea-hawk scream, and a 
gibe, and a song, 
Cries: ''So; I will spare ye the child if, in sight of 

ye all. 
Ten blows on Maclean's bare back shall fall. 
And ye reckon no stroke if the blood follow not at the 
bite of the thong!" 

Then Maclean he set hardly his tooth to his lip that 
his tooth was red, 
Breathed short for a space, said: '^Nay, but it never 

shall be! 
Let me hurl off the damnable hound in the sea!" 
But the wife: "Can Hamish go fish us the child from 
the sea, if dead ? 



THE REVENGE OF HAMISH 299 

"Say yea!— Let them lash me, Hamish?"— ''Nayl^'- 
^Husband, the lashing will heal; 
But, oh, who will heal me the bonny sweet bairn in 

his grave ? 
Could ye cure me my heart with the death of a 
knave ? 
Quick! Love! I will bare thee — so — kneel!" Then 
Maclean 'gan slowly to kneel 

With never a word, till presently downward he jerked 

to the earth. 
Then the henchman — he that smote Hamish — would 

tremble and lag; 
"Strike, hard!" quoth Hamish, full stern, from the 

crag; 
Then he struck him, and "One!" sang Hamish, and 

danced with the child in his mirth/ 

And no man spake beside Hamish; he counted each 
stroke with a song. 
When the last stroke fell, then he moved him a pace 

down the height. 
And he held forth the child in the heart-aching sight 
Of the mother, and looked all pitiful grave, as repent- 
ing a wrong. 

And there as the motherly arms stretched out with the 
thanksgiving prayer — 
And there as the mother crept up with a fearful 

swift pace. 
Till her finger nigh felt of the bairnie's face — 
In a flash fierce Hamish turned round and lifted the 
child in the air, 



300 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

And sprang with the child in his arms from the horrible 
height in the sea, 
Shrill screeching, "Revenge!'' in the wind-rush; 

and pallid Maclean, 
Age-feeble with anger and impotent pain, 
Crawled up on the crag, and lay flat, and locked hold 
of dead roots of a tree — 

And gazed hungrily o'er, and the blood from his back 
drip-dripped in the brine. 
And a sea-hawk flung down a skeleton fish as he flew. 
And the mother stared white on the waste of blue, 
And the wind drove a cloud to seaward, and the sun 
began to shine. 



MACDONALD'S RAID-1780^ 

BY PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 

I REMEMBER it Well; 'twas a morn dull and gray, 

And the legion lay idle and listless that day, 

A thin drizzle of rain piercing chill to the soul, 

And with not a spare bumper to brighten the bowl, 

When Macdonald arose, and unsheathing his blade. 

Cried, ''Who'll back me, brave comrades? I'm hot 

for a raid. 
Let the carbines be loaded, the war harness ring, 
Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the 

King!" 

^ Macdonald led four men into the fortified fort of Georgetown, 
South Carolina, held by three hundred of the British soldiers. 
By permission, of Lothrop, Lee and Shepard. 



MACDOXALD'S RAID— 1780 301 

We leaped up at his summons, all eager and bright, 
To our finger-tips thrilling to join him in fight; 
Yet he chose from our numbers jour men and no more. 
''Stalwart brothers," quoth he, "you'll be strong as 

fourscore, 
If you follow me fast wheresoever I lead. 
With keen sword and true pistol, stanch heart and bold 

steed. 
Let the weapons be loaded, the bridle-bits ring. 
Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the 

Kiiig!" 

In a trice we were mounted; Macdonald's tall form 

Seated firm in the saddle, his face like a storm 

When the clouds on Ben Lomond hang heavy and 

stark. 
And the red veins of lightning pulse hot through the 

dark; 
His left hand on his sword-belt, his right lifted free. 
With a prick from the spurred heel, a touch from the 

knee. 
His lithe Arab was off like an eagle on wing — 
"Ha! death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the 

King ! " 

'Twas three leagues to the town, where, in insolent 

pride 
Of their disciplined numbers, their works strong and 

wide. 
The big Britons, oblivious of warfare and arms, 
A soft dolce^ were wrapped in, not dreaming of harms, 
When fierce yells, as if borne on some fiend-ridden rout, 

* Idleness. 



302 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

^Yith strange cheer after cheer, are heard echoing with- 
out, 
Over which, Hke the blast of ten trumpeters, ring, 
''Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the 

King!" 



Such a tumuU we raised with steel, hoof-stroke, and 
shout. 

That the foemen made straight for their inmost re- 
doubt, 

And therein, with pale lips and cowed spirits, quoth 
thej, 

*'Lord, the whole rebel army assaults us to-day. 

Are the Avorks, think you, strong? God of heaven, 
what a din! 

'Tis the front wall besieged — have the rebels rushed 
in? 

It must be; for, hark! hark to that jubilant ring 

Of 'Death to the Redcoats, and down with the 
King!'" 

Meanwhile, through the town like a whirlwind we 

sped, 
And ere long be assured that our broadswords were 

red; 
And the ground here and there by an ominous stain 
Showed how the stark soldier beside it was slain: 
A fat sergeant-major, who yawed like a goose, 
With his waddling bow-legs, and his trappings all 

loose. 
By one back-handed blow the Macdonald cuts down, 
To the shoulder-blade, cleaving him sheer through the 

crown. 



MACDOXALD'S RAID— 1780 303 

And the last words that greet his dim consciousness 

ring 
With ''Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with 

the King!" 

Having cleared all the streets, not an enemy left 
Whose heart was unpierced, or whose headpiece un- 

cleft, 
What should we do next, but — as careless and calm 
As if we were scenting a summer morn's balm 
'Mid a land of pure peace — just serenely drop down 
On a few constant friends who still stopped in the 

town. 
What a welcome they gave us! One dear little thing, 
As I kissed her sweet lips, did I dream of the King ? — 

Of the King or his minions? No; war and its scars 
Seemed as distant just then as the fierce front of Mars 
From a love-girdled earth; but, alack! on our bliss. 
On the close clasp of arms and kiss showering on kiss, 
Broke the rude bruit of battle, the rush thick and fast 
Of the Britons made 'ware of our rash ruse at last; 
So we haste to our coursers, yet flying, we fling 
The old watchwords abroad, "Down with Redcoats 
and King!" 

As we scampered pell-mell o'er the hard-beaten track 
We had traversed that morn, we glanced momently 

back. 
And beheld their long earthw^orks all compassed in 

flame ; 
With a vile plunge and hiss the huge musket-balls 

came. 



304 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

And the soil was ploughed up, and the space 'twixt 

the trees 
Seemed to hum with the war-song of Brobdingnag^ 

bees; 
Yet above them, beyond them, victoriously ring 
The shouts, ''Death to the Redcoats, and down with 

the King!" 

Ah! that was a feat, lads, to boast of! "VMiat men 
Like you weaklings to-day had durst cope with us 

then? 
Though I say it who should not, I am ready to vow 
I'd o'ermatch a half score of your fops even now — 
The poor puny prigs, mincing up, mincing down. 
Through the whole wasted day the thronged streets 

of the town: 
Why, their dainty white necks 'twere but pastime to 

wring — 
Ay! my muscles are firm still; / fought 'gainst the 

King! 

Dare you doubt it ? well, give me the weightiest of all 
The sheathed sabres that hang there, uplooped on the 

wall ; 
Hurl the scabbard aside; yield the blade to my clasp; 
Do you see, with one hand how I poise it and grasp 
The rough iron-bound hilt? With this long hissing 

sweep 
I have smitten full many a foeman with sleep — 
That forlorn, final sleep! God! what memories cling 
To those gallant old times when we fought 'gainst the 

King. 

* See Gulliver's Travels. 



POEMS OF LOVE 

TO HELEN 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 

Helen, thy beauty is to me 

Like those Nicaean barks of yore, 

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, 
The weary, wayworn wanderer^ bore 
To his own native shore. 

On desperate seas long wont to roam, 
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face. 
Thy Naiad ^ airs, have brought me home 
To the glory that was Greece 
And the grandeur that was Rome. * 

Lo! in yon brilliant window niche 
How statue-like I see thee stand. 
The agate lamp within thy hand! 

Ah, Psyche, from the regions which 
Are Holy Land! 

^ Odysseus. ■ A water nymph. 



305 



306 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

ULALUME 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 

The skies they were ashen and sober; 

The leaves they were crisped and sere, 

The leaves they were withering and sere; 
It was night in the lonesome October 

Of my most immemorial year; 
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber/ 

In the misty mid region of Weir: 
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, 

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir: 

Here once, through an alley Titanic 
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul — 
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. 

These were days when my heart was volcanic 
As the scoriae rivers^ that roll, 
As the lavas that restlessly roll. 

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek 
Tn the ultimate climes of the pole. 

That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek 
In the realms of the boreal pole. 

Our talk had been serious and sober, 

But our thoughts they were palsied and sere, 
Our memories were treacherous and sere. 

For we knew not the month was October, 

^ The geographical names of this poem, Auber, Weir, Mount 
Yaanek, are purely imaginative. 
2 Rivers of volcanic cinders. 



ULALUME 307 

And we marked not the night of the year 

(Ah, night of all nights in the year!), 
We noted not the dim lake of Auber 

(Though once we had journeyed down here), 
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber 

Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 

And now, as the night was senescent 

And star-dials pointed to morn. 

As the star-dials hinted of morn. 
At the end of our path a liquescent 

And nebulous lustre was born. 
Out of which a miraculous crescent 

Arose with a duplicate horn, 
Astarte's bediamoned crescent 

Distinct with its duplicate horn. 

And I said — "She is warmer than Dian: 
She rolls through an ether of sighs, 
She revels in a region of sighs: 

She has seen that the tears are not dry on 
These cheeks, where the worm never dies, 

And has come past the stars of the Lion^ 
To point us the path to the skies. 
To the Lethean ^ peace of the skies : 

Come up, in despite of the Lion, 
To shine on us with her bright eyes: 

Come up through the lair of the Lion, 
With love in her luminous eyes." 

» The constellation Leo. 

^ Having the power of Lethe, a river of Hades, whose waters 
when drunk caused forgetfulness of the past. 



308 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

But Psyche, uplifting her finger, 
Said — "Sadly this star I mistrust, 
Her pallor I strangely mistrust: 

Oh, hasten! — oh, let us not linger! 
Oh, fly! — let us fly! — for we must." 

In terror she spoke, letting sink her 
Wings until they trailed in the dust; 

In agony sobbed, letting sink her 
Plumes till they trailed in the dust, 
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 

I replied — "This is nothing but dreaming: 
Let us on by this tremulous light! 
Let us bathe in this crystalline light! 

Its sibyllic splendor is beaming 
With hope and in beauty to-night: 
See, it flickers up the sky through the night! 

Ah, w^e safely may trust to its gleaming. 
And be sure it will lead us aright: 

We safely may trust to a gleaming 
That cannot but guide us aright, 
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the 
night. 

« 

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, 
And tempted her out of her gloom, 
And conquered her scruples and gloom; 

And we passed to the end of the vista, 
But were stopped by the door of a tomb, 
By the door of a legended tomb; 

And I said — ''What is written, sweet sister, 
On the door of this legended tomb?" 
She replied — "Ulalume — Llalume — 
'T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume!" 



ANNABEL LEE 309 

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober 
As the leaves that were crisped and sere, 
As the leaves that were withering and sere, 

And I cried — ''It was surely October 
On this very night of last year 
That I journeyed — I journeyed down here, 
That I brought a dread burden down here: 
On this night of all nights in the year, 
Ah, what demon has tempted me here ? 

Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber, 
This misty mid region of Weir: 

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, 
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 



ANNABEL LEE 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 

It was many and many a year ago. 

In a kingdom by the sea. 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
Than to love and be loved by me. 

I was a child, and she was a child. 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
But we loved with a love that was more than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee; 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 



310 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee; 
So that her high-born kinsmen came 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 

Went envying her and me — 
Yes! — that was the reason (as all men know, 

In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night. 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

Of those who were older than we — 

Of many far wiser than we — 
And neither the angels in heaven above. 

Nor the demons down under the sea. 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: 

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride. 

In the sepulchre there by the sea — 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 



TO ONE IN PARADISE 311 

TO ONE IN PARADISE 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 

Thou wast all that to me, love, 

For which my soul did pine — 
A green isle in the sea, love, 

A fountain and a shrine. 
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, 

And all the flowers were mine. 

Ah, dream too bright to last! 

Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise 
But to be overcast! 

A voice from out the Future cries, 
"On! on!"— but o'er the Past 

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies 
Mute, motionless, aghast. 

For, alas! alas! with me 

The light of Life is o'er! 

"No more — no more — no more" — 
(Such language holds the solemn sea 

To the sands upon the shore) 
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, 

Or the stricken eagle soar! 

And all my days are trances. 

And all my nightly dreams 
Are where thy gray eye glances. 

And where thy footstep gleams — 
In what ethereal dances. 

By what eternal streams. 



312 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

MY SPRINGS 

BY SIDNEY LANIER 

In the heart of the Hills of Life, I know 
Two springs that with unbroken flow 
Forever pour their lucent streams 
Into my soul's far Lake of Dreams. 

Not larger than two eyes, they lie 
Beneath the many-changing sky 
And mirror all of life and time, 
— Serene and dainty pantomime. 

Shot through with lights of stars and dawns, 
And shadowed sweet by ferns and fawns, 
— Thus heaven and earth together vie 
Their shining depths to sanctify. 

Always when the large Form of Love 
Is hid by storms that rage above, 
I gaze in my two springs and see 
Love in his very verity. 

Always when Faith with stifling stress 
Of grief hath died in bitterness, 
I gaze in my two springs and see 
A Faith that smiles immortally. 

Always when Charity and Hope, 
In darkness bounden, feebly grope, 
I gaze in my two springs and see 
A Light that sets my captives free. 

From Poems of Sidney Lanier. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



IVIY SPRINGS 313 

Always, when Art on perverse wing 
Flies where I cannot hear him sing, 
I gaze in my two springs and see 
A charm that brings him back to me. 

When Labor faints, and Glory fails, 
And coy Reward in sighs exhales, 
I gaze in my two springs and see 
Attainment full and heavenly. 

O Love, O Wife, thine eyes are they, 

— My springs from out whose shining gray 

Issue the sweet celestial streams 

That feed my life's bright Lake of Dreams. 

Oval and large and passion-pure 
And gray and wise and honor-sure; 
Soft as a dying violet-breath 
Yet calmly unafraid of death; 

Thronged, like two dove-cotes of gray doves. 
With wife's and mother's and poor folk's loves, 
And home-loves and high glory-loves 
And science-loves and story-loves, 

And loves for all that God and man 
In art and nature make or plan. 
And lady-loves for spidery lace 
And broideries, and supple grace, 

And diamonds, and the whole sweet round 
Of littles that large life compound. 
And loves for God and God's bare truth, 
And loves for INIagdalen and Ruth. 



314 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Dear eyes, dear eyes and rare complete — 
Being heavenly-sweet and earthly-sweet, 
— I marvel that God made you mine, 
For when He frowns, 'tis then ye shine! 



EVENING SONG 

BY SIDNEY LANIER 

Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands, 
And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea. 
How long they kiss in sight of all the lands. 
Ah! longer, longer, we. 

Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun, 
As Egypt's^ pearl dissolved in rosy wine. 
And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done. 
Love, lay thine hand in mine. 

Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart; 

Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands. 
O night! divorce our sun and sky apart, 
Never our lips, our hands. 

^ This refers to the tradition that Marc Antony dissolved a 
costly pearl in wine to gratify a whim of Cleopatra, Queen of 
Egypt, with whom he was infatuated. 

From Poems of Sidney Lanier Published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



FLORENCE VANE 315 



FLORENCE VANE* 

BY PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE 

I LOVED thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane; 
My life's bright dream, and early, 

Hath come again; 
I renew, in my fond vision. 

My heart's dear pain, 
My hope, and thy derision, 

Florence Vane. 

The ruin lone and hoary, 

The ruin old, 
Where thou didst hark my story, 

At even told, — 
That spot — the hues Elysian 

Of sky and plain — 
I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane. 

Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme; 
Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main. * 

Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane! 

^ Published in Gentleman's Magazine while Poe was the editor. 



316 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

But, fairest, coldest wonder! 

Thy glorious clay 
Lieth the green sod under — 

Alas the day! 
And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain — 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane. 

The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep, 
The pansies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep; 
May their bloom, in beauty vying, 

Never wane 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Vane! 



MY STAR 

BY JOHN BANISTER TABB 

Since the dewdrop holds the star 

The long night through, 
Perchance the satellite afar 

Reflects the dew. 

And while thine image in my heart 

Doth steadfast shine; 
There, haply, in thy heaven apart 

Thou keepest mine. 

From Poems by John B. Tabb. Second edition, 1895, By permission 
of Small, Maynard and Company and the author. 



PHYLLIS 317 

THE HALF-RING MOON 

BY JOHN BANISTER TABB 

Over the sea, over the sea, 

My love he is gone to a far countrie; 

But he brake a golden ring with me. 
The pledge of his faith to be. 

Over the sea, over the sea, 

He comes no more from the far countrie; 
But at night, where the new moon loved to be, 

Hangs the half of a ring for me. 

PHYLLIS 

BY SAMUEL MINTURN PECK 

The singing of sweet PhylHs 
Like the silver laughing rill is. 
And her breath is like the lily's 

In the dawn. 
As graceful as the dipping 
Summer swallow, or the skipping 
Of a lambkin is her tripping 

O'er the lawn. 

To whom shall I compare her? 
To a dryad? No! She's rarer. 
She is something — only fairer — 
Like Bopeep. 

From Rhymes and Roses. By permission of the Frederick A. Stokes 
Company. 



318 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

She is merry, she is clever. 
Surely had Bopeep been ever 
Half so winsome, she had never 
Lost a sheep. 

Her eyes are like the heather, 
Or the skies in April weather; 
And as blue as both together 

In the spring. 
Alas! I need a metre, 
As I pipe her, that is sweeter, 
And a rhythm that is fleeter 

On the wing. 

Beyond a poet's fancies. 

Though the muse had kissed his glance^, 

Is her dimple when it dances 

In a smile. 
Oh, the havoc it is making — 
Days of sorrow, nights of waking — 
Half a score of hearts are aching 

All the while. 

Sweet Phyllis! I adore her. 

And with beating heart implore her 

On my loving knees before her 

In alarm. 
'Tis neither kind nor rightful 
That a lassie so delightful 
Should exert a spell so frightful 

With her charm. 



A HEALTH 319 

A HEALTH.^ 

BY EDWARD COATE PINKNEY 

I FILL this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon; 
To whom the better elements 

And kindly stars have given 
A form so fair that, like the air, 

'Tis less of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own. 

Like those of morning birds, 
And something more than melody 

Dwells ever in her words; 
The coinage of her heart are they, 

And from her lips each flows 
As one may see the burdened bee 

Forth issue from the rose. 

Affections are as thoughts to her. 

The measures of her hours; 
Her feelings have the fragrancy. 

The freshness of young flowers; 
And lovely passions, changing oft. 

So fill her, she appears 
The image of themselves by turns, — 

The idol of past years! 

* Written in honor of Mrs, Rebecca Somerville. 



320 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Of her bright face one glance will trace 

A picture on the brain, 
And of her voice in echoing hearts 

A sound must long remain; 
But memory, such as mine of her, 

So very much endears. 
When death is nigh my latest sigh 

Will not be life's, but hers. 

I fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon — 
Her health ! and would on earth there stood 

Some more of such a frame. 
That life might be all poetry, 

And weariness a name. 



DREAMING IN THE TRENCHES^ 

BY WILLIAM GORDON McCABE 

I PICTURE her there in the quaint old room, 
^^^lere the fading firelight starts and falls. 

Alone in the twilight's tender gloom 

With the shadows that dance on the dim-lit walls. 

Alone, while those faces look silently down 
From their antique frames in a grim repose — 

^ Dated Pegram's Battalion Artillery, Army of Northern Vir- 
ginia, December, 1864. 

By permission of the author. 



DREAIMING IN THE TRENCHES 321 

Slight scholarly Ralph in his Oxford gown, 
And stanch Sir Alan, who died for Montrose.* 

There are gallants gay in crimson and gold, 
There are smiling beauties with powdered hair. 

But she sits there, fairer a thousandfold. 

Leaning dreamily back in her low arm-chair. 

And the roseate shadows of fading light 
Softly clear steal over the sweet young face, 

AVhere a woman's tenderness blends to-night 
With the guileless pride of a knightly race. 

Her small hands lie clasped in a listless way 

On the old Romance — which she holds on her knee — 

Of Tristram,^ the bravest of knights in the fray, 
A7id Iseult,^ who waits by the sounding sea. 

And her proud, dark eyes wear a softened look 

As she watches the dying embers fall: 
Perhaps she dreams of the knight in the book. 

Perhaps of the pictures that smile on the wall. 

What fancies — I wonder — are thronging her brain, 
For her cheeks flush w^arm with a crimson glow! 

Perhaps — ah! me, how foolish and vain! 
But I'd give my life to believe it so! 

^ James Graham, Marquis of Montrose (1612-50), a poet, a 
soldier, and loyal supporter of King Charles I, captured after 
the battle of Carbisdale (1650) and hanged by Cromwell's fol- 
lowers. 

2 A famous knight of King Arthur's Round Table. 

^ Wife of Tristram. 

For ''The Romance of Tristram and Iseult" (or Isolde) see 
Tennyson's Idylls of the King. 



322 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Well, whether I ever march home again 
To offer my love and a stainless name, 

Or whether I die at the head of my men,- 
I'll be true to the end all the same. 



REFLECTIVE POEMS 

POE'S COTTAGE AT FORDHAM 

BY JOHN HENRY BONER 

Here lived the soul enchanted 

By melody of song; 
Here dwelt the spirit haunted 

By a demoniac throng; 
Here sang the lips elated; 
Here grief and death were sated; 
Here lived and here unmated 

Was he, so frail, so strong. 

Here wintry winds and cheerless 

The dying firelight blew 
While he whose song was peerless 

Dreamed the drear midnight through. 
And from dull embers chilling 
Crept shadows darkly filling 
The silent place, and thrilling 

His fancy as they grew. 

Here, with brow bared to heaven, 

In starry night he stood. 
With the lost star of seven 

Feeling sad brotherhood. 

By permission of Mrs. John Henry Boner. 
323 



324 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Here in the sobbing showers 
Of dark autumnal hours 
He heard suspected powers 

Shriek through the stormy wood. 

From visions of Apollo^ 

And of Astarte's^ bhss, 
He gazed into the hollow 

And hopeless vale of Dis;^ 
And though earth were surrounded 
By heaven, it still was mounded 
With graves. His soul had sounded 
The dolorous abyss. 

Proud, mad, but not defiant. 

He touched at heaven and hell. 
Fate found a rare soul pliant 

And rung her changes well. 
Alternately his lyre, 
Stranded with strings of fire. 
Led earth's most happy choir 
Or flashed with Israfel.* 

No singer of old story 

Luting accustomed lays, 
No harper for new glory, 

No mendicant for praise. 
He struck high chords and splendid, 
Wlierein were fiercely blended 
Tones that unfinished ended 
With his unfinished days. 

^ The Roman and the Greek god of prophetic wisdom. 

^ The Phoenican goddess of love. 

^ The lower region. * See Poe's poem, Israfel. 



ISRAFEL 325 

Here through this lowly portal, 

Made sacred by his name, 
Unheralded immortal 

The mortal went and came. 
And fate that then denied him. 
And envy that decried him, 
And malice that belied him, 

Have cenotaphed ^ his fame. 



ISRAFEL 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell 
Whose heart-strings are a lute; 

None sing so wildly well 

As the angel Israfel, 

And the giddy stars (so legends tell). 

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 
Of his voice, all mute. 

Tottering above 

In her highest noon 

The enamoured moon 
Blushes with love. 

While, to listen, the red levin 

(With the rapid Pleiads,^ even, 

Which were seven) 

Pauses in Heaven. 

* Erected a monument to his fame. 

^ A group of small stars in the neck of the constellation Taurus. 



326 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

And they say (the starry choir 
Ajid the other hstening things) 

That IsrafeU's fire 

Is owing to that lyre 

By which he sits and sings, 

The trembhng Hving wire 
Of those unusual strings. 

But the skies that angel trod, 
Where deep thoughts are a duty. 
Where Love's a grown-up God, 

Where the Houri ^ glances are 
Imbued with all the beauty 

Which we worship in a star. 

Therefore thou are not wrong, 

Israfeli, who despisest 
An unimpassioned song; 
To thee the laurels belong, 

Best bard, because the wisest: 
Merrily live, and long! 

The ecstasies above 

With thy burning measures suit: 

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, 
With the fervor of thy lute: 
Well may the stars be mute! 

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this 
Is a world of sweets and sours; 
Our flowers are merely — flowers, 

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
Is the sunshine of ours. 

* A nymph of Paradise as denominated by the Mohamme- 
dans. 



A COMMON THOUGHT 327 

If I could dwell 
Where Israfel 

Hath dwelt, and he where I, 
He might not sing so wildly well 

A mortal melody, 
While a bolder note than this might swell 

From my lyre within the sky. 



A COMMON THOUGHT^ 
BY HENRY TIMROD 

Somewhere on this earthly planet, 

In the dust of flowers to be, 
In the dewdrop, in the sunshine, 

Sleeps a solemn day for me. 

At this wakeful hour of midnight 

I behold it dawn in mist. 
And I hear a sound of sobbing 

Through the darkness — hist! oh, hist! 

In a dim and musky chamber 

I am breathing life away; 
Some one draws a curtain softly. 

And I watch the broadening day. 

As it purples in the zenith. 

As it brightens on the lawn. 
There's a hush of death about me, 

And a whisper, ''He is gone!" 

^ This poem expresses what seems to be a premonition of his 
own day of death, which came when he was quite young and 
oppressed by many sorrows. 

By permission of the B. F. Johnson Company. 



328 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 



MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER 

ROSE 

BY RICHARD HENRY WILDE 

My life is like the summer rose, 

That opens to the morning sky, 
But ere the shades of evening close, 

Is scattered on the ground — to die! 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
As though she wept such waste to see — 
But none shall weep a tear for me! 

My life is like the autumn leaf 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray: 
Its hold is frail — its date is brief. 

Restless — and soon to pass away! 
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade. 
The parent tree will mourn its shade. 
The winds bewail the leafless tree — 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me! 

My life is like the prints which feet 

Have left on Tampa's desert strand; 
Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 

All trace will vanish from the sand; 
Yet, as if grieving to efface 
All vestige of the human race. 
On that lone shore loud moans the sea — 
But none, alas! shall mourn for me! 



. A BALLAD OF TREES AND THE MASTER 329 

A BALLAD OF TREES AND THE 

MASTER 

BY SIDNEY LANIER 

Into the woods my Master went, 

Clean forspent, forspent. 

Into the woods my Master came. 

Forspent with love and shame. 

But the olives they were not blind to Him, 

The little gray leaves were kind to Him: 

The thorn-tree had a mind to Him 

When into the woods He came. 

Out of the woods my Master went, 

And He was well content. 

Out of the woods my Master came. 

Content with death and shame. 

When Death and Shame would woo Him last, 

From under the trees they drew Him last: 

Twas on a tree they slew Him — last 

When out of the woods He came. 

From Poems of Sidney Lanier. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



Ill 

LETTERS 



LETTER TO HIS DAUGHTER 
MARTHA 

(aged eleven) 
BY THOMAS JEFFERSON 

Annapolis, Nov. 2Sth, 1783. 

My Dear Patsy — After four days' journey, I ar- 
rived here without any accident, and in as good heaUh 
as when I left Philadelphia. The conviction that you 
would be more improved in the situation I have placed 
you than if still with me, has solaced me on my parting 
with you, which my love for you has rendered a diffi- 
cult thing. The acquirements which I hope you will 
make under the tutors I have provided for you will 
render you more worthy of my love ; and if they can not 
increase it, they will prevent its diminution. Consider 
the good lady who has taken you under her roof, who 
has undertaken to see that you perform all your exercises, 
and to admonish you in all those wanderings from 
what is right or what is clever, to which your inex- 
perience would expose you: consider her, I say, as 
your mother, as the only person to whom, since the loss 
with which Heaven has pleased to afflict you, you can 
now look up; and that her displeasure or disapproba- 
tion, on any occasion, will be an immense misfortune, 
which, should you be so unhappy as to incur by any 

333 



334 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

unguarded act, think no concession too much to regain 
her good will. With respect to the distribution of your 
time, the following is what I should approve: 

From 8 to 10, practice music. 
From 10 to 1, dance one day and draw another. 
From 1 to 2, draw on the day you dance, and write a 
letter next day. 

From 3 to 4, read French. 

From 4 to 5 exercise yourself in music. 

From 5 till bed-time, read English, write, etc. 

Communicate this plan to Mrs. Hopkinson, and if 
she approves of it, pursue it. As long as Mrs. Trist 
remains in Philadelphia, cultivate her affection. She 
has been a valuable friend to you, and her good sense 
and good heart make her valued by all who know her, 
and by nobody on earth more than me. I expect you 
will TNTite me by every post. Inform me what books 
you read, what times you learn, and inclose me your 
best copy of every lesson in drawing. Write also one 
letter a week either to your Aunt Eppes, your Aunt 
Skip^ith, your Aunt Carr, or the little lady from whom 
I now inclose a letter, and always put the letter you so 
^Tite under cover to me. Take care that you never 
spell a word wrong. Always before you write a word 
consider how it is spelt, and, if you do not remember it, 
consult a dictionary. It produces great praise to a lady 
to spell well. I have placed my happiness on seeing 
you good and accomplished; and no distress which 
this world can now bring on me would equal that of 
your disappointing my hopes. If you love me, then 
strive to be good under every situation and to all liv- 
ing creatures, and to acquire those accomplishments 



LETTER TO JEFFERSON SMITH 335 

which I have put in your power, and which will go 
far towards insuring you the warmest love of your 
affectionate father, 

Th. Jefferson. 

P. S. — Keep my letters and read them at times, that 
you may always have present in your mind those things 
which will endear you to me. 



LETTER TO JEFFERSON SMITH 

BY THOMAS JEFFERSON 

This letter will, to you, be as one from the dead. 
The writer will be in the grave before you can weigh its 
counsels. Your affectionate and excellent father has 
requested that I would address to you something which 
might possibly have a favorable influence on the course 
of life you have to run; and I too, as a namesake, feel 
an interest in that course. Few words will be necessary, 
with good dispositions on your part. Adore God. 
Reverence and cherish your parents. Love your neigh- 
bor as yourself, and your country more than yourself. 
Be just. Be true. Murmur not at the ways of Provi- 
dence. So shall the life into which you have entered 
be the portal to one of eternal and ineffable bliss. And 
if to the dead it is permitted to care for the things of this 
world, every action of your life will be under my regard. 
Farewell. 

MoNTiCELLO, February 21sty 1825. 



336 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 



LETTER TO HIS SISTER 

BY ROBERT EDWARD LEE 

Arlington, Virginia, April 20, 1861. 

My Dear Sister: I am grieved at my inability to 
see you. ... I have been waiting for a ' more convenient 
season,' which has brought to many before me deep and 
lasting regret. Now we are in a state of war which 
will yield to nothing. The whole South is in a state of 
revolution, into which Virginia, after a long struggle, 
has been drawn; and though I recognize no necessity 
for this state of things, and would have forborne and 
pleaded to the end for redress of grievances, real or 
supposed, yet in my own person I had to meet the 
question whether I should take part against my native 
State. 

With all my devotion to the Union and the feeling of 
loyalty and duty of an American citizen, I have not 
been able to make up my mind to raise my hand against 
my relatives, my children, my home. I have therefore 
resigned my commission in the Army, and save in de- 
fense of my native State, with the sincere hope that my 
poor services may never be needed, I hope I may never 
be called on to draw my sword. I know you will 
blame me; but you must think as kindly of me as you 
can, and believe that I have endeavoured to do what I 
thought right. 

To show you the feeling and struggle it has cost me, I 
send you a copy of my letter of resignation. I have no 



TO GOV. LETCHER AND CAPT. TATNALL 337 

time for more. May God guard and protect you and 
yours, and shower upon you everlasting blessings, is 
the prayer of your devoted brother. 

From Recollections and Letters of General Lee, by his son. By per- 
mission of Doubleday, Page and Company. 



LETTERS TO GOVERNOR LETCHER 
AND CAPTAIN TATNALL 

(defining what ought to be the attitude of the 

SOUTHERN PEOPLE AFTER THE WAR) 

BY ROBERT EDWARD LEE 

. . . The duty of its citizens, then, appears to me 
too plain to admit of doubt. All should unite in honest 
efforts to obliterate the effects of the war and to restore 
the blessings of peace. They should remain, if possible, 
in the country; promote harmony and good feeling, 
qualify themselves to vote and elect to the State and 
general legislatures wise and patriotic men, who will 
devote their abilities to the interests of the country and 
the healing of all dissensions. I have invariably recom- 
mended this course since the cessation of hostilities, and 
have endeavoured to practise it myself. 

... I believe it to be the duty of every one to unite 
in the restoration of the country and the reestablish- 
ment of peace and harmony. These considerations 
governed me in the counsels I gave to others, and in- 
duced me on the 13th of June to make application to 
be included in the terms of the amnesty proclama- 
tion. . . . 

From Recollections and Letters of General Lee, by his son. By per- 
mission of Doubleday, Page and Company. 



338 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 



LETTER TO THE TRUSTEES OF 
WASHINGTON COLLEGE 

(accepting the presidency) 

Powhatan County, August 24, 1865. 

Gentlemen : I have delayed for some days replying 
to your letter of the 5th inst., informing me of my elec- 
tion by the board of trustees to the presidency of Wash- 
ington College, from a desire to give the subject due 
consideration. Fully impressed with the responsibili- 
ties of the office, I have feared that I should be unable 
to discharge its duties to the satisfaction of the trustees 
or to the benefit of the country. The proper education 
of youth requires not only great ability, but I fear more 
strength than I now possess, for I do not feel able to 
undergo the labour of conducting classes in regular 
courses of instruction. I could not, therefore, under- 
take more than the general administration and super- 
vision of the institution. There is another subject which 
has caused me serious reflection, and is, I think, worthy 
the consideration of the board. Being excluded from 
the terms of amnesty in the proclamation of the President 
of the United States, of the 29th of May last, and an 
object of censure to a portion of the country, I have 
thought it probable that my occupation of the position 
of president might draw upon the college a feeling of 
hostility; and I should, therefore, cause injury to an 
institution which it would be my highest desire to ad- 
vance. I think it the duty of every citizen, in the 
present condition of the country, to do all in his power 



LETTER TO MRS. JEFFERSON DAVIS 339 

to aid in the restoration of peace and harmony, and in 
no way to oppose the poHcy of the State or general 
government directed to that object. It is particularly 
incumbent on those charged with the instruction of the 
young to set them an example of submission to au- 
thority, and I could not consent to be the cause of 
animadversion upon the college. Should you, how- 
ever, take a different view, and think that my services 
in the position tendered to me by the board will be 
advantageous to the college and country, I will yield to 
your judgment and accept it; otherwise, I must most 
respectfully decline the office. Begging you to express 
to the trustees of the college my heartfelt gratitude for 
the honour conferred upon me, and requesting you to 
accept my cordial thanks for the kind manner in which 
you have communicated their decision, I am, gentlemen 
with great respect, your most obedient servant, 

R. E. Lee. 

From Recollections and Letters of General Lee, by his son. By per- 
mission of Doubleday, Page and Company. 



LETTER TO MRS. JEFFERSON 
DAVIS 

BY ROBERT EDWARD LEE 

Lexington, Virginia, February 23, 1866. 

My Dear Mrs. Davis: Your letter of the 12th 
inst. reached Lexington during my absence at Washing- 
ton. I have never seen Mr. Colfax's speech, and am, 
therefore, ignorant of the statements it contained. 
Had it, however, come under my notice, I doubt whether 



340 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

I should have thought it proper to reply. I have 
thought, from the time of the cessation of hostilities, that 
silence and patience on the part of the South was the 
true course; and I think so still. Controversy of all 
kinds will, in my opinion, only serve to continue excite- 
ment and passion, and will prevent the public mind 
from the acknowledgement and acceptance of the 
truth. These considerations have kept me from replying 
to accusations made against myself, and induced me to 
recommend the same to others. As regards the treat- 
ment of the Andersonville prisoners, to which you al- 
lude, I know nothing and can say nothing of my own 
knowledge. I never had anything to do with any 
prisoners, except to send those taken on the fields, where 
I was engaged, to the Provost Marshal General at Rich- 
mond. I have felt most keenly the sufferings and im- 
prisonment of your husband, and have earnestly con- 
sulted with friends as to any possible mode of affording 
him relief and consolation. He enjoys the sympathy 
and respect of all good men; and if, as you state, his 
trial is now near, the exhibition of the whole truth in 
his case will, I trust, prove his defense and justification. 
With sincere prayers for his health and speedy restora- 
tion to liberty, and earnest supplications to God that 
He may take you and yours under His guidance and 
protection, I am, with great respect. 
Your obedient servant, 

R. E. Lee. 

From Recollections of General Lee, by his son. By permission of 
Doubleday, Page and Company. 



LETTER TO HIS DAUGHTER 341 



LETTER TO HIS DAUGHTER 

BY ROBERT EDWARD LEE 

Lexington, Virginia, December 21, 1866. 

My Precious Life : I was very glad to receive your 
letter of the 15th inst., and to learn that you were well 
and happy. May you be always as much so as is con- 
sistent with your welfare here and hereafter, is my daily 
prayer. I was much pleased, too, that, while enjoying 
the kindness of your friends, we were not forgotten. 
Experience will teach you that, notwithstanding all 
appearances to the contrary, you will never receive 
such a love as is felt for you by your father and mother. 
That lives through absence, difficulties, and time. 
Your own feelings will teach you how it should be re- 
turned and appreciated. I want to see you very much, 
and miss you at every turn, yet am glad of this oppor- 
tunity for you to be with those, who, I know, will do all 
in their power to give you pleasure. I hope you will 
also find time to read and improve your mind. Read 
history, works of truth, not novels and romances. Get 
correct views of life, and learn to see the world in its 
true light. It will enable you to live pleasantly, to 
do good, and, when summoned away, to leave without 
regret. Your friends here inquire constantly after you, 
and wish for your return. Mrs. White and Mrs. 
McElwee particularly regret your absence, and the for- 
mer sends special thanks for your letter of remembrance. 
We g^i on in our usual way. Agnes takes good care of 
us, and is very thoughtful and attentive. She has not 



342 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

great velocity, but is systematic and quiet. After to-day, 
the mornings will begin to lengthen a little, and her 
trials to lessen. It is very cold, the ground is covered 
with six inches of snow, and the mountains, as far as 
the eye can reach in every direction, elevate their white 
crests as monuments of winter. This is the night for 
the supper for the repairs to the Episcopal church. 
Your mother and sisters are busy with their contribu- 
tions. It is to take place at the hotel, and your brother, 
cousins, and father are to attend. On Monday-night 
(24th), the supper for the Presbyterian church is to 
be held at their lecture-room. They are to have music 
and every attraction. I hope both may be productive 
of good. But you know the Episcopalians are few in 
numbers and light in purse, and must be resigned to 
small returns. ... I must leave to your sisters a de- 
scription of these feasts and also an account of the oper- 
ation of the Reading Club. As far as I can judge, it is 
a great institution for the discussion of apples and 
chestnuts, but is quite innocent of the pleasures of liter- 
ature. It, however, brings the young people together, 
and promotes sociability and conversation. Our feline 
companions are flourishing. Young Baxter is grow- 
ing in gracefulness and favour, and gives cat-like evi- 
dence of future worth. He possesses the fashionable 
colour of "moonlight on the water," apparently a dingy 
hue of the kitchen, and is strictly aristocratic in appear- 
ance and conduct. Tom, surnamed "The Nipper," 
from the manner in which he slaughters our enemies, the 
rats and mice, is admired for his gravity and sobriety, 
as well as for his strict attention to the pursuits of his 
race. They both feel your absence sorely. Traveller 
and Custis are both well, and pursue their usual dig- 
nified gait and habits, and are not led away by the 



LETTER TO A FRIEND 343 

frivolous entertainments of lectures and concerts. All 
send united love, and all wish for your return. Remem- 
ber me most kindly to Cousins Eleanor and George, 
John, Mary, Ida, and all at "Myrtle Grove," and to 
other kind friends when you meet them. Mrs. Grady 
carried yesterday to Mr. Charles Kerr, in Baltimore, a 
small package for you. Be careful of your health, and 
do not eat more than half the plum-puddings Cousin 
Eleanor has prepared for Xmas. I am glad to hear 
that you are fattening, and I hope you will reach 125 
lbs. Think always of your father, who loves you dearly. 

R. E. Lee. 

P. S. 22d. — Rob arrived last night with "Lucy 
Long." He thinks it too bad you are away. He has 
not seen you for two years. 

R. E. Lee. 

From Recollections and Letters of General Lee, by his son. By permission 
of Doubleday, Page and Company. 



LETTER TO A FRIEND 

BY MRS. ROGER PRYOR 

Richmond, April 4, 1863. 

My Dear: I hope you appreciate the fact that 
you are herewith honored with a letter written in royal- 
red ink upon sumptuous gilt-edged paper. There is not, 
at the present writing, one inch of paper for sale in the 
capital of the Confederacy, at all within the humble 
means of the wife of a Confederate officer. Well is it 
for her — and I hope for you — that her youthful ad- 
mirers were few, and so her gorgeous cream-and-gold 



344 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

album was only half filled with tender effusions. Out 
come the blank leaves, to be divided between her friend 
and her Colonel. Dont be alarmed at the color of the 
writing. I have not yet dipped my goose-quill (there 
are no steel pens) in the "ruddy drops that visit my sad 
heart/' nor yet into good orthodox red ink. There are 
fine oaks in the country, and that noble tree bears a 
gall-nut filled with crimson sap. One lies on my table, 
and into its sanguinary heart I plunge my pen. 

Something very sad has just happened in Rich- 
mond — something that makes me ashamed of all my 
jeremiads over the loss of petty comforts and con- 
veniences of life — hats, bonnets, gowns, stationery, 
books, magazines, dainty food. Since the weather has 
been so pleasant, I have been in the habit of walking 
in the Capitol Square before breakfast every morning. 
Somehow nothing so sets me up after a restless 
night as a glimpse of the dandelions waking up from 
their dewy bed and the songs of the birds in the 
Park. Yesterday, upon arriving, I found within the 
gates a crowd of women and boys — several hundreds 
of them, standing quietly together. I sat on a bench 
near, and one of the number left the rest and took the 
seat beside me. She was a pale, emaciated girl, not 
more than eighteen, with a sunbonnet on her head, 
and dressed in a clean calico gown. ''I could stand 
no longer," she explained. As I made room for her I 
observed that she had delicate features and large eyes. 
Her hair and dress were neat. As she raised her hand 
to remove her sunbonnet and use it for a fan, her loose 
calico sleeve slipped up, and revealed the mere skeleton 
of an arm. She perceived my expression as I looked at 
it, and hastily pulled down her sleeve with a short laugh. 
"This is all that's left of me," she said. "It seems real 



LETTER TO A FRIEND 345 

funny, dont it ? " Evidently she had been a pretty girl — - 
a dressmaker's apprentice, I judged from her chafed 
forefinger and a certain skill in the lines of her gown. I 
was encouraged to ask: "What is it? Is there some 
celebration ? " 

" There is," said the girl solemnly; "we celebrate 
our right to live. We are starving. As soon as enough 
of us get together we are going to the bakeries and each 
of us will take a loaf of bread. That is little enough 
for the government to give us after it has taken all our 
men." 

Just then a fat old black Mammy waddled up the 
walk to overtake a beautiful child who was running 
before her. " Come dis a way, honey," she called, "dont 
go nigh dem people," adding in a lower tone, "I's 
feared you'll ketch somethin fum dem po-white folks. 
I wonder dey lets 'em into de Park." 

The girl turned to me with a wan smile, and as she 
rose to join the long line that had now formed and was 
moving, she said simply, "Good-bye! I'm going to get 
something to eat." 

"And I devoutly hope you'll get it — and plenty of 
it," I told her. The crowd now rapidly increased, and 
numbered, I am sure, more than a thousand women 
and children. It grew and grew until it reached the 
dignity of a mob — a bread riot. They impressed all 
the light carts they met, and marched along silently 
and in order. They marched through Gary Street and 
Main, visiting the stores of the speculators and emp- 
tying them of their contents. Governor Letcher sent 
the mayor to read the Riot Act, and as this had no 
effect he threatened to fire on the crowd. The city bat- 
talion then came up. The women fell back with fright- 
ened eyes, but did not obey the order to disperse. The 



346 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

President then appeared, ascended a dray, and ad- 
dressed them. It is said he was received at first with 
hisses from the boys, but after he had spoken some httle 
time with great kindness and sympathy, the women 
quietly moved on, taking their food with them. Gen- 
eral Elzey and General Winder wished to call troops 
from the camps "to suppress the women," but Mr. 
Seddon, wise man, declined to issue the order. While 
I write women and children are still standing in the 
streets, demanding food, and the government is issuing 
to them rations of rice. 

This is a frightful state of things. I am telling you 
of it because not one word has been said in the news- 
papers about it. All will be changed. Judge Campbell 
tells me, if we can win a battle or two (But, oh, at what 
a price!), and regain the control of our railroads. Your 
General has been magnificent. He has fed Lee's army 
all winter — I wish he could feed our starving women 
and children. 

Dearly, Agnes. 

From Reminiscences of Peace and War. By permission of The Mac- 
millan Company. 



LETTER TO A FRIEND 

BY MRS. ROGER PRYOR 

Richmond, A'pril 5, 1865. 

My Dear: I am not at all sure you will ever re- 
ceive this letter, but I shall risk it. First, I join you in 
humble thanks to God for the great mercy accorded to 
both of us. Your General lives. My Colonel lives. 
What words can express our gratitude? What is the 



LETTER TO A FRIEND 347 

loss of home and goods compared with the loss of our 
own flesh and blood? Alas! alas! for those who have 
lost all. 

I am sure you will have heard the grewsome story of 
Richmond's evacuation. I was at St. Paul's Sunday, 
April 1, when a note was handed to President Davis. 
He rose instantly, and walked down the aisle — his face 
set, so we could read nothing. Dr. Minnegrode gave 
notice that General Ewell desired the forces to assemble 
at 3 P. M., and also that there would be no further ser- 
vice that day. I had seen no one speak to the Doctor, 
and I wonder at the acuteness of his perception of the 
state of affairs. As soon as I reached the hotel I wrote a 
note to the proprietor, asking for news. He answered 
that grave tidings had come from Petersburg, and for 
himself he was by no means sure we could hold Rich- 
mond. He requested me to keep quiet and not en- 
courage a tendency to excitement or panic. At first I 
thought I would read my services in the quiet of my little 
sky parlor at the Spotswood, but I was literally in a 
fever of anxiety. I descended to the parlor. Nobody 
was there except two or three children with their 
nurses. Later in the afternoon I walked out and met 
Mr. James Lyons. He said there was no use in further 
evading the truth. The lines were broken at Petersburg 
and that town and Richmond would be surrendered 
late at night — he was going out himself with the mayor 
and Judge Meredith with a flag of truce and surrender 
the city. Trains were already fired to carry the archives 
and bank officials. The President and his Cabinet 
would probably leave at the same time. 

^'Ajid you. Judge?" 

"1 shall stand my ground. I have a sick family, and 
we must take our chances together." 



348 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

"Then seriously — really and truly — Richmond is to 
be given up, after all, to the enemy." 

"Nothing less! And we are going to have a rough 
time, I imagine." 

I could not be satisfied until I had seen Judge Camp- 
bell, upon v^^hom we so much relied for good calm sense. 
I found him with his hands full of papers, which he 
waved deprecatingly as I entered. 

" Just a minute, Judge! I am alone at the Spotswood 
and " 

"Stay there, my dear lady! You will be perfectly 
safe. I advise all families to remain in their own houses. 
Keep quiet. I am glad to know the Colonel is safe. 
He may be with you soon now." 

With this advice I returned and mightily reassured 
and comforted the proprietor of the Spotswood. He 
immediately caused notice to be issued to his guests. 
I resolved to convey my news to the families I knew 
best. The Pegrams were in such deep affliction there 
was no room there for anxious fears about such small 
matters as the evacuation of cities, but I could see my 
dear Mrs. Paul, and Mrs. Maben, and say a comforting 
word at the Allan home — closed to all the world since 
poor John fell at Gettysburg. Mrs. Davis was gone 
and out of harm's way. The Lees were sacred from in- 
trusion. Four members of that household — the General, 
"Rooney," Custis and Robert — were all at the post of 
danger. Late in the afternoon three hundred or more 
prisoners were marched down the street; the negroes 
began to stand about, quietly observant but courteous, 
making no demonstration whatever. The day, you 
remember, was one of those glorious days we have in 
April, and millions on millions of stars watched at night, 
looking down on the watchers below. I expected to sit 



LETTER TO A FRIEND 349 

by my window all night as you always do in a troubled 
time, but sleep overtook me. I had slept, but not un- 
dressed, when a loud explosion shook the house, — then 
another. There were crashing sounds of falling glass 
from the concussion. I found the sun had risen. All 
was commotion in the streets, and agitation in the hotel. 
The city government had dragged hogsheads of liquor 
from the shops, knocked in the heads, and poured the 
spirits in the gutters. They ran with brandy, whisky, 
and rum, and men, women, and boys rushed out with 
buckets, pails, pitchers, and in the lower streets, hats 
and boots, to be filled. Before eight o'clock many public 
buildings were in flames, and a great conflagration was 
evidently imminent. The flames swept up Main Street, 
where the stores were quickly burned, and then roared 
down the side streets almost to Franklin. 

The doors of the government bakeries were thrown 
open and food was given to all who asked it. Women 
and children walked in and helped themselves. At 
ten o'clock the enemy arrived, — ten thousand negro 
troops, going on and on, cheered by the negroes on the 
streets. 

So the morning passed — a morning of horror, of ter- 
ror! Drunken men shouted and reeled through the 
streets, a black cloud from the burning city hung like 
a pall over us, a black sea of faces filled the streets below, 
shells burst continuously in the ashes of the burning 
armory. About four in the afternoon a salute of thirty- 
four guns was fired. A company of mounted dragoons 
advanced up the street, escorting an open carriage drawn 
by four horses in which sat Mr. Lincoln and a naval 
oflScer, followed by an escort of cavalry. They drove 
straight to Mr. Davis' house, cheered all the way by 
negroes, and returned the way they came, I h9.d a 



350 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

good look at Mr. Lincoln. He seemed tired and old — 
and I must say, with due respect to the President of the 
United States, I thought him the ugliest man I had ever 
seen. He was fairly elected the first time, I acknowledge 
— but was he the last? A good many of the "free and 
equal " were not allowed a vote then. 

The next day I persuaded one of the lads in the hotel 
to take a walk with me early in the morning, and I 
passed General Lee's house. A Yankee guard was 
pacing to and fro before it — at which I felt an impulse 
of indignation, — but presently the door opened, the 
guard took his seat on the steps and proceeded to in- 
vestigate the contents of a very neatly furnished tray, 
which Mrs. Lee in the kindness of her heart, had sent 
out to him. 

I am obliged to acknowledge that there is really no 
hope now of our ultimate success. Everybody says so. 
My heart is too full for words. General Johnson says 
we may comfort ourselves by that fact that war may 
decide a 'policy but never a principle. I imagine our 
principle is all that remains to us of hope or comfort. 
Devotedly, Agnes. 

From Reminiscencs of Peace and War. By permission of The Mac- 
millan Company. 



LETTER TO HIS FATHER 351 

LETTER TO HIS FATHER ' 

BY SIDNEY LANIER 

I HAVE given your last letter the fullest and most 
careful consideration. After doing so I feel sure that 
Macon is not the place for me. If you could taste the 
delicious crystalline air, and the champagne breeze that 
I've just been rushing about in, I am equally sure that 
in point of climate you would agree with me that my 
chance for life is ten times as great here as in Macon. 
Then, as to business, why should I, nay, how can I, 
settle myself down to be a third-rate struggling lawyer 
for the balance of my little life, as long as there is a cer- 
tainty almost absolute that I can do some other thing so 
much better ? Several persons, from whose judgment in 
such matters there can be no appeal, have told me, for 
instance, that I am the greatest flute-player in the world; 
and several others, of equally authoritative judgment, 
have given me an almost equal encouragement to work 
with my pen. (Of course I protest against the necessity 
which makes me write such things about myself. I 
only do so because I so appreciate the love and tender- 
ness which prompt you to desire me with you that I 
will make the fullest explanation possible of my course, 
out of reciprocal honor and respect for the motives 
which lead you to think differently from me.) My 
dear father, think how, for twenty years, through pov- 
erty, through pain, through weariness, through sickness, 

^ Written to announce his determination to devote himself 

to poetry and music. 

From the Introduction to Poems of Sidney Lanier. Published by 
Charles Scribner's Sons. 



352 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

through the uncongenial atmosphere of a farcical col- 
lege and of a bare army and then of an exacting busi- 
ness life, through all the 'discouragement of being wholly 
unacquainted with literary people and literary ways, — 
I say, think how, in spite of all these depressing circum- 
stances, and of a thousand more which I could enumer- 
ate, these two figures of music and of poetry have stead- 
ily kept in my heart so that I could not banish them. 
Does it not seem to you as to me, that I begin to have 
the right to enroll myself among the devotees of these 
two sublime arts, after having followed them so long 
and so humblv, and thro so much bitterness? 



LETTERS TO HIS \MFE 

BY SIDNEY LANIER 

Ah, how they have belied Wagner! I heard Theo- 
dore Thomas's orchestra play his overture to "Tann- 
hauser." The ''Music of the Future" is surely thy 
music and my music. Each harmony was a chorus of 
pure aspirations. The sequences flowed along, one 
after another, as if all the great and noble deeds of 
time had formed a procession and marched in review 
before one's ears instead of one's eyes. These ''great 
and noble deeds" were not deeds of war and statesman- 
ship, but majestic victories of inner struggles of a man. 
This unbroken march of beautiful-bodied Triumphs 
irresistibly invites the soul of a man to create other pro- 
cessions like it. I would I might lead a so magnificent 
file of glories into heaven! 

From Letters of Sidney Lanier. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



LETTERS TO HIS WIFE 353 

And again, in 1871: 

And to-night I come out of what might have been 
heaven. . . . 

'Twas opening night of Theodore Thomas's orches- 
tra, at Central Park Garden, and I could not resist the 
temptation to go and bathe in the sweet amber seas of 
the music of this fine orchestra, and so I went, and 
tugged me through a vast crowd, and, after standing 
some while, found a seat, and the baton tapped and 
waved, and I plunged into the sea, and lay and floated. 
Ah! the dear flutes and oboes and horns drifted me 
hither and thither, and the great violins and small 
violins swayed me upon waves, and overflowed me with 
strong lavations, and sprinkled glistening foam in my 
face, and in among the clarinetti, as among waving 
water-lilies with flexile stems, I pushed my easy way, 
and so, even lying in the music-waters, I floated and 
flowed, my soul utterly bent and prostrate. 



IV 

ORATIONS AND ADDRESSES 



THE COMPROMISE OF 1850^ 

BY HENRY CLAY 
• • • • •• • • 

The responsibility of this great measure passes from 
the hands of the committee, and from my hands. They 
know, and I know, that it is an awful and tremendous 
responsibility. I hope that you will meet it with a just 
conception and a true appreciation of its magnitude, 
and the magnitude of the consequences that may ensue 
from your decision one way or the other. The alter- 

^ In 1820 Missouri asked to be admitted into the Union as a 
slave State. This precipitated a long fight on the slavery ques- 
tion between the Northern and Southern congressmen, the 
majority of those from the North arguing against the admission 
of Missouri unless slavery be forbidden in that State. The 
Southern congressmen, on the other hand, held that Missouri 
should be admitted and then allowed to settle this question within 
its own legislature. A compromise bill was introduced which pro- 
vided that Missouri should keep its slaves, but that slavery should 
not be allowed anywhere else west of the Mississippi River and 
north of latitude 36° and 30', — the southern boundary of Mis- 
souri. Clay strongly advocated this bill, and did everything in 
his power to reconcile the two factions. For this reason he was 
called the "Great Pacificator.'' 

In 1850, when California demanded admission to the Union, 
those who favored slavery said the admission of California would 
nullify the Missouri Compromise, as part of California runs south 
of the southern boundary of Missouri. Those opposed to slavery 
were equally anxious that a free State be admitted and this again 
precipitated strife. Clay made one more attempt to keep peace 
and introduced what is called the "Omnibus Bill," which has 
some provisions aimed to please both sides. It is upon this bill 
that he delivered this speech in the United States Senate, July 
22, 1850. 

357 



358 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

natives, I fear, which the measure presents, are con- 
cord and increased discord; a servile civil war, origi- 
nating in its causes on the lower Rio Grande, and 
terminating possibly in its consequences on the upper 
Rio Grande in the Santa F^ country, or the restoration 
of harmony and fraternal kindness. I believe from 
the bottom of my soul, that the measure is the re- 
union of this Union. I believe it is the dove of peace, 
which, taking its aerial flight from the dome of the 
Capitol, carries the glad tidings of assured peace and 
restored harmony to all the remotest extremities of 
this distracted land. I believe that it will be attended 
with all these beneficent effects. And now let us 
discard all resentments, all passions, all petty jeal- 
ousies, all personal desires, all love of place, all hank- 
erings after the gilded crumbs which fall from the 
table of power. Let us forget popular fears, from 
whatever quarter they may spring. Let us go to the 
limpid fountain of unadulterated patriotism, and, per- 
forming a solemn lustration, return divested of all self- 
ish, sinister, and sordid impurities, and think alone of 
our God, our country, our consciences, and our glorious 
Union — that Union without which we shall be torn 
into hostile fragments, and sooner or later become the 
victims of military despotism, or foreign domination. 

Mr. President, what is an individual man ? An atom, 
almost invisible without a magnifying-glass — a mere 
speck upon the surface of the immense universe; not 
a second in time, compared to immeasurable, never- 
beginning, and never-ending eternity; a drop of water 
in the great deep, which evaporates and is borne off by 
the winds; a grain of sand, which is soon gathered to 
the dust from which it sprung. Shall a being so small, 
so petty, so fleeting, so evanescent, oppose itself to the 



THE COMPROMISE OF 1850 359 

onward march of a great nation, which is to subsist 
for ages and ages to come ; oppose itself to that long line 
of posterity which, issuing from our loins, will endure 
during the existence of the world? Forbid it, God. 
Let us look to our country and our cause, elevate our- 
selves to the dignity of pure and disinterested patriots, 
and save our country from all impending dangers. 
What if, in the march of this nation to greatness and 
power, we should be buried beneath the wheels that 
propel it onward? What are we — what is any man — 
worth who is not ready and willing to sacrifice himself 
for the benefit of his country when it is necessary ? . . . 
Sir, we have had hard words, bitter words, bitter 
thoughts, unpleasant feelings toward each other in the 
progress of this great measure. Let us forget them. 
Let us sacrifice these feelings. Let us go to the altar 
of our country and swear, as the oath was taken of old, 
that we will stand by her; that we will support her; 
that we will uphold her Constitution; that we will pre- 
serve her Union; and that we will pass this great, com- 
prehensive and healing system of measures, which will 
hush all the jarring elements, and bring peace and 
tranquillity to our homes. 



360 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 



THE CONCLUSION OF CALHOUN'S 
LAST SPEECH' 

Having now shown what cannot save the Union, I re- 
turn to the question with which I commenced, How can 
the Union be saved ? There is but one way by which it 
can with any certainty; and that is, by a full and final 
settlement, on the principle of justice, of all the ques- 
tions at issue between the two sections. The South asks 
for justice, simple justice, and less she ought not to 
take. She has no compromise to offer but the Constitu- 
tion; and no concession or surrender to make. She 
has already surrendered so much that she has little left 
to surrender. Such a settlement would go to the root of 
the evil, and remove all cause of discontent; by satisfy- 
ing the South she could remain honorably and safely 
in the Union, and thereby restore the harmony and 
fraternal feelings between the sections, which existed 
anterior to the Missouri agitation. Nothing else can, 
with any certainty, finally and forever settle the ques- 
tions at issue, terminate agitation, and save the Union. 

But can this be done ? Yes, easily ; not by the weaker 
party, for it can of itself do nothing — not even protect 
itself — but by the stronger. The North has only to will 
it to accomplish it — to do justice by conceding to the 
South an equal right in the acquired territory, and to do 
her duty by causing the stipulations relative to fugitive 

^ "This speech on the slavery question in the debates on the 
Compromise of 1850 was read from proof-sheets by Senator 
James M. Mason, of Virginia, Calhoun being too feeble to deliver 
it. The next day he made a few remarks in answer to Senator 
Foote, but not a set speech." — Trent's Southern Writers. 



CALHOUN'S LAST SPEECH 361 

slaves to be faithfully fulfilled — to cease the agitation of 
the slave question, and to provide for the insertion of a 
provision in the Constitution, by an amendment, which 
will restore to the South, in substance, the power she 
possessed of protecting herself, before the equilibrium 
between the sections was destroyed by the action of this 
Government. There will be no diflficulty in devising 
such a provision — one that will protect the South, and 
which, at the same time, will improve and strengthen 
the Government, instead of impairing and weakening it. 

But will the North agree to this? It is for her to 
answer the question. But, I will say, she cannot re- 
fuse, if she has half the love of the Union which she 
professes to have, or without justly exposing herself to 
the charge that her love of power and aggrandizement 
is far greater than her love of the Union. At all events, 
the responsibility of saving the Union rests on the North, 
and not on the South. The South cannot save it by any 
act of hers, and the North may save it without any 
sacrifice whatever, unless to do justice, and to perform 
her duty under the Constitution, should be regarded by 
her as a sacrifice. 

It is time. Senators, that there should be an open 
and manly avowal on all sides as to what is intended to 
be done. If the question is not now settled, it is uncer- 
tain whether it ever can hereafter be; and we, as the 
representatives of the States of this Union, regarded 
as governments, should come to a distinct understanding 
as to our respective views, in order to ascertain whether 
the great questions at issue can be settled or not. If 
you, who represent the stronger portion, cannot agree 
to settle them on the broad principle of justice and duty, 
say so; and let the States we both represent agree to sep- 
arate and part in peace. If you are unwilling we should 



362 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

part in peace, tell us so, and we shall know what to do, 
when you reduce the question to submission or resist- 
ance. If you remain silent, you will compel us to 
infer by your acts what you intend. In that case Cali- 
fornia will become the test question. If you admit her, 
under all the difficulties that oppose her admission, 
you compel us to infer that you intend to exclude us 
from the whole of the acquired territories, with the in- 
tention of destroying, irretrievably, the equilibrium be- 
tween the two sections. We would be blind not to 
perceive in that case that your real objects are power 
and aggrandizement, and infatuated not to act accord- 
ingly. 

I have now. Senators, done my duty in expressing my 
opinions fully, freely, and candidly, on this solemn 
occasion. In doing so, I have been governed by the 
motives which have governed me in all the stages of the 
agitation of the slavery question since its commence- 
ment. I have exerted myself, during the whole period, 
to arrest it, with the intention of saving the Union, if 
it could be done; and if it could not, to save the section 
where it has pleased Providence to cast my lot, and 
which I sincerely believe has justice and the Constitu- 
tion on its side. Having faithfully done my duty to the 
best of my ability, both to the Union and my section, 
throughout this agitation, I shall have the consolation, 
let what will come, that I am free from all respon- 
sibility. 



THE EULOGY OF SUMNER 363 



THE EULOGY OF SUMNER' 

Mr. Speaker: In rising to second the resolutions 
just offered, I desire to add a few remarks which have 
occurred to me as appropriate to the occasion. I be- 
lieve that they express a sentiment which pervades the 
hearts of all the people whose representatives are here 
assembled. Strange as, in looking back upon the past, 
the assertion may seem, impossible as it would have 
been ten years ago to make it, it is not the less true that 
to-day Mississippi regrets the death of Charles Sumner, 
and sincerely unites in paying honors to his memory. 
Not because of the splendor of his intellect, though in 
him was extinguished one of the brightest of the lights 
which have illumined the councils of the government 
for nearly a quarter of a century; not because of the 
high culture, the elegant scholarship, and the varied 
learning which revealed themselves so clearly in all his 
public efforts as to justify the application to him of 
Johnson's felicitous expression, '*He touched nothing 
which he did not adorn"; ^ not this, though these are 
qualities by no means, it is to be feared, so common in 
public places as to make their disappearance, in even a 
single instance, a matter of indifference; but because of 
those peculiar and strongly marked moral traits of his 
character which gave the coloring to the whole tenor of 
his singularly dramatic public career; traits which made 

^ The speech was delivered in the House of Representatives 
April 28, 1874, in seconding the resolution for a suspension of 
the consideration of public business offered by the Honorable E. 
R. Hoar, of Massachusetts. 

2 From Dr. Johnson's epitaph for Oliver Goldsmith. 

From Mayes's L. Q. C. Lamar, etc., 1896. By permission of Mr. Ed- 
ward Mayes, 



364 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

him for a long period to a large* portion of his country- 
men the object of as deep and passionate a hostility as 
to another he was one of enthusiastic admiration, and 
which are not the less the cause that now^ unites all these 
parties, ever so widely differing, in a common sorrow to- 
day over his lifeless remains. 

It is of these high moral qualities which I wish to 
speak; for these have been the traits which in after 
years, as I have considered the successive acts and 
utterances of this remarkable man, fastened most 
strongly my attention, and impressed themselves most 
forcibly upon my imagination, my sensibilities, my 
heart. I leave to others to speak of his intellectual 
superiority, of those rare gifts with which nature had so 
lavishly endowed him, and of the power to use them 
which he had acquired by education I say nothing of 
his vast and varied stores of historical knowledge, or of 
the wide extent of his reading in the elegant literature 
of ancient and modern times, or of his wonderful power 
of retaining what he had read, or of his readiness in 
drawing upon these fertile resources to illustrate his 
own arguments. I say nothing of his eloquence as an 
orator, of his skill as a logician, or of his powers of 
fascination in the unrestrained freedom of the social 
circle, which last it was my misfortune not to have ex- 
perienced. These, indeed, were the qualities which 
gave him eminence not only in our country, but through- 
out the world; and which have made the name of 
Charles Sumner an integral part of our nation's glory. 
They were the qualities which gave to those moral 
traits of which I have spoken the power to impress 
themselves upon the history of the age and of civiliza- 
tion itself; and without which those traits, however in- 
tensely developed, would have exerted no influence 



THE EULOGY OF SUMNER 365 

beyond the personal circle immediately surrounding 
their possessor. More eloquent tongues than mine 
will do them justice. Let me speak of the character- 
istics which brought the illustrious Senator who has 
just passed away into direct and bitter antagonism for 
years with my own State and her sister States of the 
South. 

Charles Sumner was born with an instinctive love of 
freedom, and was educated from his earliest infancy to 
the belief that freedom is the natural and indefeasible 
right of every intelligent being having the outward form 
of man. In him, in fact, this creed seems to have been 
something more than a doctrine imbibed from teachers 
or a result of education. To him it was a grand intu- 
itive truth, inscribed in blazing letters upon the tablet 
of his inner consciousness, to deny which would have 
been for him to deny that he himself existed. And 
along with this all-controlling love of freedom he pos- 
sessed a moral sensibility keenly intense and vivid, a 
conscientiousness which would never permit him to 
swerve by the breadth of a hair from what he pictured 
to himself as the path of duty. Thus were combined 
in him the characteristics which have in all ages given 
to religion her martyrs, and to patriotism her self- 
sacrificing heroes. 

To a man thoroughly permeated and imbued with 
such a creed, and animated and constantly actuated by 
such a spirit of devotion, to behold a human being or a 
race of human beings restrained of their natural right 
to liberty, for no crime by him or them committed, was 
to feel all the belligerent instincts of his nature roused 
to combat. The fact was to him a wrong which no 
logic could justify. It mattered not how humble in the 
scale of rational existence the subject of this restraint 



366 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

might be, how dark his skin, or how dense his ignorance. 
Behind all that lay for him the great principle that 
liberty is the birthright of all humanity, and that every 
individual of every race who has a soul to save is en- 
titled to the freedom which may enable him to work 
out his salvation. It mattered not that the slave 
might be contented with his lot; that his actual con- 
dition might be immeasurably more desirable than that 
from which it had transplanted him; that it gave him 
physical comfort, mental and moral elevation, and re- 
ligious culture not possessed by his race in any other 
condition; that his bonds had not been placed upon 
his hands by the living generation; that the mixed 
social system of which he formed an element had been 
regarded by the fathers of the republic, and by the 
ablest statesmen who had risen up after them, as too 
complicated to be broken up without danger to society 
itself, or even to civilization; or, finally, that the actual 
state of things had been recognized and explicitly sanc- 
tioned by the very organic law of the republic. Weighty 
as these considerations might be, formidable as were the 
diflficulties in the way of the practical enforcement of 
his great principle, he held none the less that it must 
sooner or later be enforced, though institutions and 
constitutions should have to give way alike before it. 
But here let me do this great man the justice which, 
amid the excitement of the struggle between the sec- 
tions — now past — I may have been disposed to deny 
him. In this fiery zeal, and this earnest warfare 
against the wrong, as he viewed it, there entered no 
enduring personal animosity toward the men whose 
lot it was to be born to the system which he denounced. 
It has been the kindness of the sympathy which in 
these later years he has displayed toward the impover- 



THE EULOGY OF SUMNER 367 

ished and suffering people of the Southern States that 
has unveiled to me the generous and tender heart which 
beat beneath the bosom of the zealot, and has forced 
me to yield him the tribute of my respect — I might even 
say of my admiration. Nor in the manifestation of 
this has there been anything which a proud and sensi- 
tive people, smarting under the sense of recent discom- 
fiture and present suffering, might not frankly accept, 
or which would give them just cause to suspect its sin- 
cerity. For though he raised his voice, as soon as he 
believed the momentous issues of this great military 
conflict were decided, in behalf of amnesty to the van- 
quished; and though he stood forward, ready to wel- 
come back as brothers, and to re-establish in their rights 
as citizens, those whose valor had nearly riven asunder 
the Union he loved; yet he always insisted that the 
most ample protection and the largest safeguards 
should be thrown around the liberties of the newly en- 
franchised African race. Though he knew very well 
that of his conquered fellow-citizens of the South by 
far the larger portion, even those who most heartily 
acquiesced in and desired the abolition of slavery, seri- 
ously questioned the expediency of investing in a single 
day, and without any preliminary tutelage, so vast a 
body of inexperienced and uninstructed men with the 
full rights of freemen and voters, he would tolerate no 
half-way measures upon a point to him so vital. 

Indeed, immediately after the war, while other minds 
were occupying themselves with different theories of 
reconstruction, he did not hesitate to impress most 
emphatically upon the administration, not only in 
public, but in the confidence of private intercourse, his 
uncompromising resolution to oppose to the last any 
and every scheme which should fail to provide the sur- 



368 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

est guarantees for the personal freedom and political 
rights of the race which he had undertaken to protect. 
Whether his measures to secure this resuU showed him 
to be a practical statesman or a theoretical enthusiast, 
is a question on which any decision we may pronounce 
to-day must await the inevitable revision of posterity. 
The spirit of magnanimity, therefore, which breathes 
in his utterances and manifests itself in all his acts 
affecting the South during the last two years of his 
life, was as evidently honest as it was grateful to the 
feelings of those toward whom it was displayed. 

It was certainly a gracious act toward the South — 
though unhappily it jarred upon the sensibilities of the 
people at the other extreme of the Union, and estranged 
from him the great body of his political friends — to 
propose to erase from the banners of the national army 
the mementos of the bloody internecine struggle, 
which might be regarded as assailing the pride or 
wounding the sensibilities of the Southern people.^ 
That proposal will never be forgotten by that people so 
long as the name of Charles Sumner lives in the memory 
of man. But, while it touched the heart of the South, 
and elicited her profound gratitude, her people would 
not have asked of the North such an act of self-renun- 
ciation. 

Conscious that they themselves were animated by 
devotion to constitutional liberty, and that the brightest 
pages of history are replete with evidences of the depth 
and sincerity of that devotion, they cannot but cherish 
the recollections of sacrifices endured, the battles 
fought, and the victories won in defence of their hapless 
cause. And respecting, as all true and brave men must 

^ Sumner introduced a bill for this purpose in December, 
1872. 



THE EULOGY OF SUMNER 369 

respect, the martial spirit with which the men of the 
North vindicated the integrity of the Union, and their 
devotion to the principles of human freedom, they do 
not ask, they do not wish the North to strike the me- 
mentos of her heroism and victory from either records 
or monuments or battle flags. They would rather 
that both sections should gather up the glories won by 
each section: not envious, but proud of each other, 
and regard them p common heritage of American valor. 

Let us hope that future generations, when they re- 
member the deeds of heroism and devotion done on 
both sides, will speak not of Northern prowess and 
Southern courage, but of the heroism, fortitude, and 
courage of Americans in a war of ideas; a war in which 
each section signalized its consecration to the principles, 
as each understood them, of American liberty and of 
the Constitution received from their fathers. 

It was my misfortune, perhaps my fault, personally 
never to have known this eminent philanthropist and 
statesman. The impulse was often strong upon me to 
go to him and offer him my hand, and my heart with it, 
and to express to him my thanks for his kind and con- 
siderate course toward the people with whom I am 
identified. If I did not yield to that impulse, it was 
because the thought occurred that other days were 
coming in which such a demonstration might be more 
opportune, and less liable to misconstruction. Sud- 
denly, and without premonition, a day has come at 
last to which, for such a purpose, there is no to-morrow. 
My regret is therefore intensified by the thought that I 
failed to speak to him out of the fulness of my heart 
while there was yet time. 

How often is it that death thus brings unavailingly 
back to our remembrance opportunities unimproved; in 



370 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

which generous overtures, prompted by the heart, re- 
main unoffered; frank avowals which rose to the Hps 
remain unspoken; and the injustice and wrong of 
bitter resentments remain unrepaired! Charles Sum- 
ner, in life, believed that all occasion for strife and 
distrust between the North and South had passed 
away, and that there no longer remained any cause 
for continual estrangement between these two sections 
of our common country. Are there not many of us 
w^ho believe the same thing? Is not that the common 
sentiment — or if it is not, ought it not to be — of the 
great mass of our people. North and South? Bound 
to each other by a common Constitution, destined to 
live together under a common government, forming 
unitedly but a single member of the great family of 
nations, shall we not now at last endeavor to grow 
toward each other once more in heart, as we are al- 
ready indissolubly linked to each other in fortunes? 
Shall we not, over the honored remains of this great 
champion of human liberty, this feeling sympathizer 
with human sorrow, this earnest pleader for the exercise 
of human tenderness and charity, lay aside the conceal- 
ments which serve only to perpetuate misunderstand- 
ings and distrust, and frankly confess that on both sides 
we most earnestly desire to be one; one not merely in 
community of language and literature and traditions 
and country; but more, and better than all that, one 
also in feeling and in heart ? Am I mistaken in this ? 

Do the concealments of which I speak still cover ani- 
mosities which neither time nor reflection nor the march 
of events have yet sufficed to subdue ? I cannot believe 
it. Since I have been here I have watched with anxious 
scrutiny your sentiments as expressed not merely in 
public debate, but in the abandon of personal confidence. 



THE EULOGY OF SUMNER 371 

I know well the sentiments of these, my Southern 
brothers, whose hearts are so enfolded that the feeling 
of each is the feeling of all; and I see on both sides 
only the seeming of a constraint, which each apparently 
hesitates to dismiss. The South — prostrate, exhausted, 
drained of her life-blood as well as of her material re- 
sources, yet still honorable and true — accepts the bitter 
award of the bloody arbitrament without reservation, 
resolutely determined to abide the result with chivalrous 
fidelity; yet, as if struck dumb by the magnitude of her 
reverses, she suffers on in silence. The North, exultant 
in her triumph, and elated by success, still cherishes, as 
we are assured, a heart full of magnanimous emotions 
toward her disarmed and discomfited antagonist; and 
yet, as if mastered by some mysterious spell, silencing 
her better impulses, her words and acts are the words 
and acts of suspicion and distrust. 

Would that the spirit of the illustrious dead whom 
we lament to-day could speak from the grave to both 
parties to this deplorable discord in tones which should 
reach each and every heart throughout this broad ter- 
ritory: "My countrymen! Know one another, and 
you will love one another." ^ 

^ " Lamar's biographer, ex-Chancellor Mayes, tells us that most 
of the persons gathered to hear the speeches upon Sumner ex- 
pected little more than a conventional tribute of respect from 
the Representative from Mississippi. The House was thronged, 
but a hush came over the audience as the orator warmed to his 
great task. Speaker Blaine turned his face away to hide his tears. 
Republican and Democratic members throughout the hall were 
seen weeping. When Mr. Lamar finished, there came a storm 
of applause, and the name of the orator within a day was famous 
throughout the country. Whatever opinion may now be held as 
to the justice of his eulogium of Sumner, too much praise can 
scarcely be given the spirit in which it was delivered." — Trent's 
Southern Writers. 



372 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

ABRAHAM LINXOLN^ 

BY HENRY WATTERSON 

From Caesar to Bismarck and Gladstone the world 
has had its statesmen and its soldiers — men who rose to 
eminence and power step bv step, through a series of 
geometric progression, as it were, each advancement 
following in regular order one after the other, the whole 
obedient to well-established and well-understood laws of 
cause and effect. They were not what we call "men of 
destiny." They were "men of the time." They were 
men whose careers had a beginning, a middle, and an 
end, rounding off lives with histories, full it may be of 
interesting and exciting events, but comprehensive and 
comprehensible, simple, clear, complete. 

The inspired ones are fewer. Whence their emana- 
tion, where and how they got their power, by what rule 
they lived, moved and had their being, we know not. 
There is no explication of their lives. They rose from 
shadow and they went in mist. We see them, we feel 
them, but we know them not. They came, God's word 
upon their lips; they did their office, God's mantle 
about them; and they vanished, God's holy light be- 
tween the world and them, leaving behind a memory, 
half mortal and half myth. From first to last they were 
the creations of some special Providence, baffling the 
wit of man to fathom, defeating the machinations of the 
world, the flesh and the devil until their work was done, 

^ Delivered before the Lincoln Union at Chicago, February 12, 
1895. 

By permission of Mr. Watterson. 



ABRAHA:\I LINCOLN 373 

then passing from the scene as mysteriously as they had 
come upon it. 

Tried by this standard, where shall we find an ex- 
ample so impressive as Abraham Lincoln, whose career 
might be chanted by a Greek chorus as at once the 
prelude and the epilogue of the most imperial theme 
of modern times ? 

Born as lowly as the Son of God, in a hovel; reared 
in penury, squalor, with no gleam of light or fair sur- 
rounding; without graces, actual or acquired; without 
name or fame or official training : it was reserved for this 
strange being, late in life, to be snatched from obscurity, 
raised to supreme command at a supreme moment, and 
intrusted with the destiny of a nation. 

The great leaders of his party, the most experienced 
and accomplished public men of the day, were made to 
stand aside, were sent to the rear, whilst this fantastic 
figure was led by unseen hands to the front and given 
the reins of power. It is immaterial whether we were 
for him or against him; wholly immaterial. That 
during four years, carrying with them such a weight of 
responsibility as the world never witnessed before, he 
filled the vast space allotted him in the eyes and actions 
of mankind, is to say that he was inspired of God, for 
nowhere else could he have acquired the wisdom and 
the virtue. 

Where did Shakespeare get his genius? Where did 
Mozart get his music ? Whose hand smote the lyre of the 
Scottish ploughman,^ and stayed the life of the German 
priest?^ God, God, and God alone; and as sure as 
these were raised up by God, inspired by God, was 
Abraham Lincoln; and a thousand years hence, no 

^ Robert Bums. 

2 Martin Luther, leader of the German Reformation. 



374 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

drama, no tragedy, no epic poem, will be filled with 
greater wonder, or be followed by mankind with a 
deeper feeling, than that which tells the story of his 
life and death. 

I look into the crystal globe ^ that, slowly turning, 
tells the story of his life, and I see a little heart-broken 
boy, weeping by the outstretched form of a dead mother, 
then bravely, nobly trudging a hundred miles to obtain 
her Christian burial; I see this motherless lad growing 
to manhood amid scenes that seem to lead to nothing 
but abasement; no teachers; no books, no chart, ex- 
cept his own untutored mind; no compass, except his 
own undisciplined will; no light, save from Heaven; 
yet, like the caravel of Columbus, struggling on and on 
through the trough of the sea, always toward the des- 
tined land. I see the full-grown man, stalwart and 
brave, an athlete in activity of movement and strength 
of limb, yet vexed by weird dreams and visions — of life, 
of love, of religion, sometimes verging on despair. I 
see the mind, grown as robust as the body, throw off 
the phantasms of the imagination and give itself wholly 
to the workaday uses of the world — the rearing of chil- 
dren, the earning of bread, the multiplied duties of life. 
I see the party leader, self-confident in conscious recti- 
tude; original, because he was fearless, pursuing his 
convictions with earnest zeal, and urging them upon 
his fellows with the resources of an oratory which was 
hardly more impressive than it was many-sided. I see 
him, the preferred among his fellows, ascend the emi- 
nence reserved for him; and him alone of all the states- 
men of the time, and the derision of opponents and the 
distrust of supporters, yet unawed and unmoved because 

^ Crystal globes are used by professional fortune-tellers and 
mediums in forecasting the future. 



THE NEW SOUTH 375 

thoroughly equipped to meet the emergency. The 
same being, from first to last; the poor child weeping 
over a dead mother; the great chief sobbing amid the 
cruel horrors of war; flinching not from duty, nor 
changing his life-long ways of dealing with the stern 
realities which pressed upon him and hurried him on- 
ward. And, last scene of all, that ends the strange, 
eventful history, I see him lying dead there in the Capi- 
tol of the nation to which he had rendered ''the last, 
full measure of his devotion," the flag of his country 
around him, the world in mourning. 



THE NEW SOUTH ^ 

BY HENRY WOODFIN GRADY 

"There was a South of slavery and secession — that 
South is dead. There is a South of union and free- 
dom — that South, thank God, is living, breathing, grow- 
ing every hour." These words, delivered from the im- 
mortal lips of Benjamin H. Hill, at Tammany Hall, in 
1866, true then and truer now, I shall make my text 
to-night, 

Mr. President and Gentlemen: Let me express to 
you my appreciation of the kindness by which I am 

^ On the 21st of December, 1886, Mr. Grady, in response to 
an urgent invitation, delivered the following address at the 
banquet of the New England Club, New York. Mr. Grady ac- 
cepted the invitation with great hesitancy, but after he rose to 
his feet spoke as if truly inspired to deliver a message. There 
are many who think this speech did more than any other one 
thing to bring the two sections together again. 



376 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

permitted to address you. I make this abrupt acknowl- 
edgment advisedly, for I feel that if, when I raise my 
provincial voice in this ancient and august presence, it 
could find courage for no more than the opening sen- 
tence, it would be well if in that sentence I had met in a 
rough sense my obligation as a guest, and had perished, 
so to speak, with courtesy on my lips and grace in my 
heart. 

Permitted, through your kindness, to catch my 
second wind, let me say that I appreciate the signifi- 
cance of being the first Southerner to speak at this board, 
which bears the substance, if it surpasses the semblance, 
of original New England hospitality — and honors the 
sentiment that in turn honors you, but in which my per- 
sonality is lost, and the compliment to my people made 
plain. 

I bespeak the utmost stretch of your courtesy to- 
night. I am not troubled about those from whom I 
come. You remember the man whose wife sent him 
to a neighbor with a pitcher of milk, and who, tripping 
on the top step, fell with such casual interruptions as 
the landings afforded into the basement, and, while pick- 
ing himself up, had the pleasure of hearing his wife 
call out: "John, did you break the pitcher?" 

"Xo, I didn't," said John, "but I'll be dinged if I 
don't." 

So, while those who call me from behind may in- 
spire me with energy, if not with courage, I ask an in- 
dulgent hearing from you. I beg that you will bring 
your full faith in American fairness and frankness to 
judgment upon what I shall say. There was an old 
preacher once who told some boys of the Bible lesson 
he was going to read in the morning. The boys, find- 
ing the place, glued together the connecting pages. 



THE NEW SOUTH 377 

The next morning he read on the bottom of one page, 
''When Noah was one hundred and twenty years old 
he took unto himself a wife, who was" — then turning 
the page — ''140 cubits long — 40 cubits wide, built of 
gopherwood — and covered with pitch inside and out." 
He was naturally puzzled at this. He read it again, 
verified it, and then said: "My friends, this is the first 
time I ever met this in the Bible, but I accept this as 
an evidence of the assertion that we are fearfully and 
wonderfully made." If I could get you to hold such 
faith to-night I could proceed cheerfully to the task I 
otherwise approach with a sense of consecration. 

Pardon me one word, Mr. President, spoken for the 
sole purpose of getting into the volumes that go out 
annually freighted with the rich eloquence of your 
speakers — the fact that the Cavalier as well as the Puri- 
tan was on the continent in its early days, and that he 
was " up and able to be about." I have read your books 
carefully and I find no mention of the fact, which seems 
to me an important one for preserving a sort of histor- 
ical equilibrium, if for nothing else. 

Let me remind you that the Virginia Cavalier first 
challenged France on the continent — that a Cavalier, 
John Smith, gave New England its very name, and was 
so pleased with the job that he has been handing his 
own name around ever since — and that while Miles 
Standish ^ was cutting off men's ears for courting a girl 
without her parents' consent, and forbade men to kiss 
their wives on Sunday, the Cavalier was courting every- 
thing in sight, and that the Almighty had vouchsafed 
great increase to the Cavalier colonies, the huts in the 
wilderness being as full as the nests in the woods. 

But having incorporated the Cavalier as a fact in 
^ Captain Miles Standish (see Longfellow's poem). 



378 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

your charming little books, I shall let him work out his 
own salvation, as he has always done, with engaging 
gallantry, and we will hold no controversy as to his mer- 
its. Why should we? Neither Puritan nor Cavalier 
long survived as such. The virtues and good traditions 
of both happily still live for the inspiration of their sons 
and the saving of the old fashion. But both Puritan 
and Cavalier were lost in the storm of the first Revo- 
lution, and the American citizen, supplanting both and 
stronger than either, took possession of the republic 
bought by their common blood and fashioned to wisdom, 
and charged himself with teaching men government and 
establishing the voice of the people as the voice of God. 
My friends, Dr. Talmage ^ has told you that the typi- 
cal American has yet to come. Let me tell you that he 
has already come. Great types, like valuable plants, 
are slow to flower and fruit. But from the union 
of these colonists, Puritans and Cavaliers, from the 
straightening of their purposes and the crossing of their 
blood, slow perfecting through a century, came he who 
stands as the first typical American, the first who 
comprehended within himself all the strength and 
gentleness, all the majesty and grace of this republic — 
Abraham Lincoln. He was the sum of Puritan and 
Cavalier, for in his ardent nature were fused the virt- 
ues of both, and in the depths of his great soul the 
faults of both were lost. He was greater than Puritan, 
greater than Cavalier, in that he was American, and 
that in his honest form were first gathered the vast and 
thrilling forces of his ideal government — charging it with 
such tremendous meaning and elevating it so above 
human suffering that martyrdom, though infamously 

' Thomas De Witt Talmage, D.D. (1832-1902), of New Jersey, 
a popular pulpit orator and lecturer. 



THE NEW SOUTH 379 

aimed, came as a fitting crown to a life consecrated 
from the cradle to human liberty. Let us, each cherish- 
ing the traditions and honoring his fathers, build with 
reverent hands to the type of this simple but sublime 
life, in which all types are honored, and in our common 
glory as Americans there will be plenty and to spare 
for your forefathers and for mine. 

Dr. Talmage has drawn for you, with a master's 
hand, the picture of your returning armies. He has 
told you how, in the pomp and circumstance of war, 
they came back to you, marching with proud and victo- 
rious tread, reading their glory in a nation's eyes! Will 
you bear with me while I tell you of another army that 
sought its home at the close of the late war — an army 
that marched home in defeat and not in victory — in 
pathos, and not in splendor, but in glory that equalled 
yours, and to hearts as loving as ever welcomed heroes 
home! 

Let me picture to you the footsore Confederate sol- 
dier as, buttoning up in his faded gray jacket the parole 
which was to bear testimony to his children of his 
fidelity and faith, he turned his face southward from 
Appomattox in April, 1865. Think of him as, ragged, 
half starved, heavy-hearted, enfeebled by want and 
wounds, having fought to exhaustion, he surrenders his 
gun, wTings the hands of his comrades in silence, and 
lifting his tear-stained and pallid face for the last time 
to the graves that dot old Virginia hills, pulls his gray 
cap over his brow and begins the slow and painful 
journey. 

What does he find — let me ask you who went to 
your homes eager to find, in the welcome you had 
justly earned, full payment for four years' sacrifice — 
what does he find when, having followed the battle- 



3S0 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

stained cross against overwhelming odds, dreading 
death not half so much as surrender, he reaches the 
home he left so prosperous and beautiful? He finds 
his house in ruins, his farm devastated, his slaves free, 
his stock killed, his barns empty, his trade destroyed, 
his money worthless; his social system, feudal in its 
magnificence, swept away; his people without law or 
legal status; his comrades slain, and the burdens of 
others heavy on his shoulders. Crushed by defeat, 
his very traditions are gone. ^Yithout money, credit, 
employment, material, or training; and beside all this, 
confronted with the gravest problem that ever met 
human intelligence — the establishment of a status for 
the vast body of his liberated slaves. 

^Miat does he do — this hero in gray with a heart of 
gold? Does he sit down in sullenness and despair? 
Not for a day. Surely God, who had stripped him of 
his prosperity, inspired him in his adversity. As ruin 
was never before so overwhelming, never was restora- 
tion swifter. 

The soldier stepped from the trenches into the fur- 
row; horses that had charged Federal guns marched 
before the plough, and fields that ran red with human 
blood in April were green with the harvest in June; 
women reared in luxury cut up their dresses and made 
breeches for their husbands, and, with a patience and 
heroism that fit women always as a garment, gave their 
hands to work. There was little bitterness in all this. 
Cheerfulness and frankness prevailed. *'BilP Arp" 
struck the key-note when he said: "Well, I killed as 
many of them as they did of me, and now I'm going to 

^"Bill Arp" {Bill, a Rebel Private): The pen-name of Major 
Charles H. Smith (1826-1903), of Georgia, a popular Southern 
humorist. 



THE NEW SOUTH 381 

work." So did the soldier returning home after de- 
feat and roasting some corn on the roadside who made 
the remark to his comrades: ''You may leave the South 
if you want to, but I'm going to Sandersville, kiss my 
wife and raise a crop, and if the Yankees fool with me 
any more, I'll whip 'em again." 

I want to say to General Sherman, who is considered 
an able man in our parts, though some people think he 
is a kind of careless man about fire, that from the ashes 
he left us in 1864 we have raised a brave and beautiful 
city; that somehow or other we have caught the sun- 
shine in the bricks and mortar of our homes, and have 
builded therein not one ignoble prejudice or memory. 

But what is the sum of our work ? We have found 
out that in the summing up the free negro counts more 
than he did as a slave. We have planted the school- 
house on the hilltop and made it free to white and black. 
We have sowed towns and cities in the place of theories, 
and put business above politics. We have challenged 
your spinners in INIassachusetts and your ironmakers in 
Pennsylvania. We have learned that the $400,000,000 
annually received from our cotton crop will make us 
rich when the supplies that make it are home-raised. 
We have reduced the commercial rate of interest from 
twenty-four to six per cent., and are floating four per 
cent, bonds. We have learned that one Northern 
immigrant is worth fifty foreigners and have smoothed 
the path to Southward, wiped out the place where 
Mason and Dixon's line ^ used to be, and hung out the 
latchstring to you and yours. 

^ Mason and Dixon's line: In 1767 two surveyors named 
Mason and Dixon fixed the boundary line between Pennsylvania 
and Maryland. This line became famous as the boundary be- 
tween the free States of the North and what were the slave-hold-' 
ing States of the South, 



382 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

We have reached the point that marks perfect har- 
mony in every household, when the husband confesses 
that the pies which his wife cooks are as good as those 
his mother used to bake; and we admit that the sun 
shines as brightly and the moon as softly as it did 
before the war. We have established thrift in city and 
country. We have fallen in love with work. We have 
restored comfort to homes from which culture and ele- 
gance never departed. We have let economy take root 
and spread among us as rank as the crab-grass which 
sprung from Sherman's cavalry camps, until we are 
ready to lay odds on the Georgia Yankee as he manu- 
factures relics of the battlefield in a one-story shanty 
and squeezes pure olive-oil out of his cotton-seed, 
against any down-easter that ever swapped wooden 
nutmegs for flannel sausage in the valleys of Vermont. 
Above all, we know that we have achieved in these 
"piping times of peace" a fuller independence for the 
South than that which our fathers sought to win in the 
forum by their eloquence or compel in the field by their 
swords. 

It is a rare privilege, sir, to have had part, how- 
ever humble, in this work. Never was nobler duty 
confided to human hands than the uplifting and up- 
building of the prostrate and bleeding South — mis- 
guided, perhaps, but beautiful in her suffering, and 
honest brave, and generous always. In the record of 
her social industrial, and political institutions we await 
with confidence the verdict of the world. 

But what of the negro ? Have we solved the problem 
he presents, or progressed in honor and equity toward 
solution ? Let the record speak to the point. No sec- 
tion shows a more prosperous laboring population than 
the negroes of the South, none in fuller sympathy with 



THE NEW SOUTH 383 

the employing and land-owning class. He shares our 
school fund, has the fullest protection of our laws and 
the friendship of our people. Self-interest, as well as 
honor, demand that he should have this. Our future, 
our very existence depend upon our working out this 
problem in full and exact justice. We understand that 
when Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation, 
your victory was assured, for he then committed you to 
the cause of human liberty, against which the arms of 
man cannot prevail — while those of our statesmen who 
trusted to make slavery the corner-stone of the Con- 
federacy doomed us to defeat as far as they could, 
committing us to a cause that reason could not defend 
or the sword maintain in sight of advancing civilization. 
Had Mr. Toombs ^ said, which he did not say, ''that 
he would call the roll of his slaves at the foot of Bunker 
Hill," he would have been foolish, for he might have 
known that whenever slavery became entangled in war 
it must perish, and that the chattel in human flesh 
ended forever in New England when your fathers — not 
to be blamed for parting with what didn't pay — sold 
their slaves to our fathers — not to be praised for know- 
ing a paying thing when they saw it. The relations of 
the Southern people with the negro are close and cordial. 
We remember with what fidelity for four years he / 
guarded our defenceless women and children, whose 
husbands and fathers were fighting against his freedom. 
To his eternal credit be it said that whenever he struck 
a blow for his own liberty he fought in open battle, and 
when at last he raised his black and humble hands that 
the shackles might be struck off, those hands were inno- 
cent of wrong against his helpless charges, and worthy 

^Robert Toombs (1810-85), of Georgia: An able politician, 
leader of the secession party in his native State. 



3S4 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

^ to be taken in loving grasp by every man who honors 
loyalty and devotion. Ruffians have maltreated him, 
rascals have misled him, philanthropists established a 
bank for him, but the South, with the North, protests 
against injustice to this simple and sincere people. 

To libertv and enfranchisement is as far as law can 
carry the negro. The rest must be left to conscience 
and common sense. It must be left to those among 
whom his lot is cast, with whom he is indissolubly 
connected, and whose prosperity depends upon their 
possessing his intelligent sympathy and confidence. 
Faith has been kept with him, in spite of calumnious 
assertions to the contrary by those who assume to 
speak for us or by frank opponents. Faith will be kept 
with him in the future, if the South hiolds her reason and 
integrity. 

But have we kept faith with you? In the fullest 
sense, yes. ^Mien Lee surrendered — I don't say when 
Johnston surrendered, because I understand he still 
alludes to the time when he met General Sherman last 
as the time when he determined to abandon any 
further prosecution of the struggle — when Lee surren- 
dered, I say, and Johnston quit, the South became and 
has since been, loyal to this Union. We fought hard 
enough to know that we were whipped, and in perfect 
frankness accept as final the arbitrament of the sword 
to which we had appealed. The South found her 
jewel in the toad's head of defeat. The shackles that 
had held her in narrow limitations fell forever when the 
shackles of the negro slave were broken. Under the old 
regime the negroes were slaves to the South; the South 
was a slave to the system. The old plantation, with its 
simple police regulations and feudal habit, was the only 
type possible under slavery. Thus was gathered in 



THE NEW SOUTH 385 

the hands of a splendid and chivalric oHgarchy the sub- 
stance that should have been diffused among the people, 
as the rich blood under certain artificial conditions is 
gathered at the heart, filling that with affluent rapture, 
but leaving the body chill and colorless. 

The old South rested everything on slavery and agri- 
culture, unconscious that these could neither give nor 
maintain healthy growth. The new South presents a 
perfect democracy, the oligarchs leading in the popular 
movement — a social system compact and closely knitted, 
less splendid on the surface, but stronger at the core — 
a hundred farms for every plantation, fifty homes for 
every palace — and a diversified industry that meets the 
complex needs of this complex age. 

The new South is enamoured of her new work. Her 
soul is stirred with the breath of a new life. The light 
of a grander day is falling fair on her face. She is 
thrilling with the consciousness of growing power and 
prosperity. As she stands upright, fuU-statured and 
equal among the people of the earth, breathing the 
keen air and looking out upon the expanded horizon, 
she understands that her emancipation came because 
through the inscrutable wisdom of God her honest pur- 
pose was crossed, and her brave armies were beaten. 

This is said in no spirit of time-serving or apology. 
The South has nothing for which to apologize. She 
believes that the late struggle between the States was 
war and not rebellion; revolution and not conspiracy, 
and that her convictions were as honest as yours. I 
should be unjust to the dauntless spirit of the South 
and to my own convictions if I did not make this plain 
in this presence. The South has nothing to take back. 

In my native town of Athens is a monument that 
crowns its central hill — a plain, white shaft. Deep cut 



3S6 SOUTHERN PROSE -\ND POETRY 

into its shining side is a name dear to me above the 
names of men — that of a brave and simple man who 
died in brave and simple faith. Xot for all the glories 
of New England, from Plymouth Rock all the way, 
would I exchange the heritage he left me in his soldier's 
death. To the foot of that I shall send my children's 
children to reverence him who ennobled their name 
with his heroic blood. But, sir, speaking from the 
shadow of that memorv which I honor as I do nothing 
else on earth, I say that the cause in which he suffered 
and for which he gave his life was adjudged by higher 
and fuller wisdom than his or mine, and I am glad that 
the omniscient God held the balance of battle in his 
Almighty hand and that human slavery was swept 
forever from American soil — that the American Union 
was saved from the T\Teck of war. 

This message, Mr. President, comes to vou from 
consecrated ground. Every foot of soil about the city 
in which I live is sacred as a battle-ground of the re- 
public. Every hill that invests it is hallowed to you 
by the blood of your brothers who died for your victory, 
and doubly hallowed to us by the blood of those who 
died hopeless, but undaunted, in defeat — sacred soil to 
all of us — rich with memories that make us purer and 
stronger and better — silent but stanch witnesses in its 
red desolation of the matchless valor of American 
hearts and the deathless glory of American arms — 
speaking an eloquent witness in its white peace and 
prosperity to the indissoluble union of American States 
and the imperishable brotherhood of the American 
people. 

Now, what answer has New England to this mes- 
sage ? Will she permit the prejudice of war to remain 
in the hearts of the conquerors, when it has died in 



THE NEW SOUTH 387 

the hearts of the conquered? Will she transmit this 
prejudice to the next generation, that in their hearts 
which never felt the generous ardor of conflict it may 
perpetuate itself ? Will she withhold, save in- strained 
courtesy, the hand which straight from his soldier's heart 
Grant offered to Lee at Appomattox? Will she make 
the vision of a restored and happy people, which gath- 
ered above the couch of your dying captain, filling his 
heart with grace, touching his lips with praise, and 
glorifying his path to the grave — will she make this 
vision, on which the last sigh of his expiring soul 
breathed a benediction, a cheat and delusion ? 

If she does, the South, never abject in asking for 
comradeship, must accept with dignity its refusal; but 
if she does not refuse to accept in frankness and sin- 
cerity this message of good-will and friendship, then 
will the prophecy of Webster, delivered in this "very 
society forty years ago amid tremendous applause, be- 
come true, be verified in its fullest sense, when he said: 
"Standing hand to hand and clasping hands, we should 
remain united as we have been for sixty years, citizens 
of the same country, members of the same government, 
united, all united now and united forever." There 
have been diflSculties, contentions, and controversies, 
butl tell you that, in my judgment, 

" Those opened eyes, 
Which like the meteors of a troubled heaven, 
All of one nature, of one substance bred, 
Did lately meet in th' intestine shock, 
Shall now, in mutual well beseeming ranks, 
March all one way." 



388 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 



SECTIONALISM AND NATIONALITY^ 

BY EDWIN A. ALDERMAN 

When sectionalism is held in mind as a passion, or as 
a rooted distrust of those who do not live where we do, 
the word is a sinister word, and expresses an idea against 
which all the forces of the world are at work; but when 
it is thought of as a historic force, preordered by dis- 
tinct, natural conditions, it becomes a fruitful idea, 
the true meaning of which we have not properly con- 
sidered. 

The story of America, in a large way, is the story of 
imperial sections, reaching up after self-consciousness, 
and social and industrial unity, and then reacting upon 
each other, sometimes blindly, sometimes helpfully, 
to achieve a national unity and a national spirit. 

When one speaks of New England, or the South, 
or the West, there is instant understanding of what is 
meant by this true sectionalism, which this New Eng- 
land Society in the city of New York emphasizes and 
idealizes (for no other conception than this could have 
tied together this Society in brotherhood and affection 
for one hundred and one years). 

I bring this evening the greetings and good-will of the 
Old Dominion and her daughter States, the oldest, the 
most unselfish, and the most engaging and distinguished 
of American sections, to New England and the lands 
of her making — the next of age, the most powerful, the 

^ Before the New England Society in the city of New York, 
December 22, 1906. 



SECTIONALISM AND NATIONALITY 389 

most fruitful, and the most pervasive in ideas and in- 
stitutions. The Old Dominion is on the eve of cele- 
brating her three hundredth birthday, under circum- 
stances of great dignity and beauty, and she has it in 
her heart to understand better and to come closer to all 
parts of the great Republic, with whose making she 
had so much to do. I shall be pardoned for believing 
that in the light that will beat upon her during the prog- 
ress of her great festival the whole nation will gain a 
renewed sense of her authority, her spiritual value, and 
her right to the title of "Mother of States." 

There have been times when it was difficult for the 
people of Massachusetts and the people of Virginia 
to think justly or to speak kindly of each other, but 
there was a time when they could, and, in the provi- 
dence of God, that time has rolled around again. For 
three generations the people of the South and the peo- 
ple of New England stood to each other and to the world 
as natural antagonists, clenched in an endless struggle 
of warring ideals, born of different racial impulses, 
religious beliefs, and economic tendencies. 

You have all heard of the little Southern boy who 
thought that "damyankee" was one word until he was 
fourteen years old. Perhaps some of you are even 
better acquainted with the little New England boy whose 
mental image of the Southerner was the image of a 
swaggering blade, whose language was easy profanity, 
and whose morning meal consisted of a simple Ken- 
tucky breakfast, three cocktails and a chaw of tobacco. 

Let us admit, then, that these two sections, almost 
from the landing of the Susan Constant and the May- 
flower, have followed different paths of development, 
and have, in a measure, tested the value of different 
institutions. In so doing, let us admit further that they 



390 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

have greatly misunderstood each other. They have 
frequently nagged each other and called each other 
names, and, at last, came to the point where they 
shed each other's blood. But in all their generations 
of dissension I see a certain quality of curiosity and in- 
terest, of sympathy and regret, akin to that which 
shows in a divided family, or which shines for us so 
strikingly in that gentlest and most singular of all his- 
toric reconciliations, when John Adams and Thomas 
Jefferson, after a lifetime of misunderstanding, had 
power given to their dying eyes to behold each other, 
face to face, in lineaments of essential grandeur and 
dignity. 

Certainly, there are no two peoples in the world who 
quietly enjoy so much each other's commendation, or 
wince so smartly under each other's disapproval, ^^^len 
a New Englander has the greatness of soul to perceive 
the royal beauty of the character of Robert E. Lee, or 
when a man like Lamar beholds and utters sublime 
words of understanding of the soul of a man like Sum- 
ner, it is a fine thing to note the glow of good feeling 
that pervades the two regions. It is a pity that utter- 
ance is not given to a little more of this silent apprecia- 
tion. For instance, the South knew and honored the 
pure gold in the character of George F. Hoar, as New 
England understands the ''moral elegance," to use Mr. 
Wister's phrase, and Spartan integrity of men like 
Senator Morgan and John W. Daniel. All this means 
that these regions respect each other, and respect is 
everywhere the foundation of esteem and finallv of un- 
derstanding. L^pon this basis of respect, let us look 
briefly, but somewhat more carefully, at the root of 
the matter. 

A goodly library has been \STitten in an effort to ac- 



SECTIONALISM AND NATIONALITY 391 

count for the antagonisms of New England and the 
South on the basis of difference between the Puritan 
and the Cavaher, as those names have been used to de- 
fine two types of EngHshmen. The matter will never 
be settled on this basis. It is true that English Puri- 
tans practically founded and settled the character of 
New England. It would be a dull and a senseless mind 
that did not realize the majestic significance of the com- 
ing of the Puritan to this continent, who did not under- 
stand in what a revolutionary fire was wrought the 
temper of his soul in the old home land; who did not feel 
gratitude for the sheer strength of moral imagination, 
the exact idealism, the genius of intelligent thrift and 
passionate instinct for order, which he poured into 
the making of this Republic. 

I can understand the enthusiasm of a son of New 
England for the gentle Pilgrims, sailing westward upon 
that epic ship, the Mayfloiver, or for those stern English- 
men who later came to this shore, professing an iron 
faith, seeking the will of God, bearing with them the 
town meeting, the public school, an exaltation of hu- 
manity, an appreciation of the potential value of the 
common man, and a superabundant determination 
and capacity to look after their own business, which 
sometimes overflowed into the domain of the business 
of others. Institutions, ideals, and ideas were in their 
right hand, and in their left, wilfulness and foresight and 
common sense, as inflexible and as durable as granite. 

Some eighteen millions of this indomitable breed in- 
habit the American continent to-day, after three hundred 
years of experience and achievement. They have come 
pretty close to enforcing their point of view of things 
political, social, and economic, upon the rest of this na- 
tion. They have lost much of homogeneity in their 



392 SOUTHERN PROSE .AND POETRY 

struggle with foreign elements, but they have reproduced 
a thousand New Englands on the rolling plains of the 
North-west and the far West. They have outgrown 
their religious notions so often that I do not just know 
where they are "at" now religiously. Perhaps that 
point is best expressed by Mr. Barrett Wendell in his 
declaration that in their relio-ioiis growth thev have 
oscillated from a consideration of "what the Devil is" 
to a consideration of "what the Devil anything is!" 

Englishmen of the same age of revolutionary feeling, 
and of the same passion for principle, settled and gave 
character to Tidewater, Virginia. Men call these 
Englishmen "Cavaliers." They had their religion, 
though it was primarily adventure and conquest, rather 
than reliction, that haled them over the sea. Followino: 
afar ofT, they even took a hand at persecuting a Quaker 
or two now and then. They vrere just as ready as the 
Puritans to fight for an ideal. As the tide flowed west- 
ward, many of them, too, left home for conscience' 
sake. They knew the same sensation of devotion to a 
cause, and they had a conception of political liberty 
just as clear and, perhaps, an even greater genius for 
political debate and philosophical exposition. I can 
understand the enthusiasm of a Virginian for these 
laro'e-statured men of their Tidewater lands, out of 
whom came our supreme national hero, and a Homeric 
group of resourceful men, without whose influence it 
would be difficult to see how this Republic could have 
ever been born. It is endlessly pleasant to a South- 
erner to hark back to their manly simplicity, their activ- 
ity, their disinterested public spirit, their continental 
grasp, and their wholesome, catholic lovableness. 

Long generations afterward, Robert E. Lee flowered 
out of the same bud, verv like the old stock, only 



SECTIONALISM AND NATIONALITY 393 

gentler and more able, through virtue and suffering, 
to evoke the love of millions. Two such men as 
Washington and Lee in one century is a mighty tribute 
to the character of the Tidewater stock. 

But to understand the composite traits in Southern 
character, one must forget the Cavalier for a moment, 
and look into the valleys and hills of Virginia and the 
Carolinas, into which poured a half-million Scotch- 
Irishmen in the last years of the eighteenth century. 
These Scotch-Irishmen were neither Englishmen nor 
Irish, but just plain Scotch, and here and there, their 
French prototypes. Huguenots, all of whom were Cal- 
vinists, with the Calvinist's fearful intimacy with God, 
and sureness of opinion and passion for his sort of 
truth. The Scotch-Irishman in Virginia and the Pu- 
ritan in Massachusetts were blood kin in spirit and 
in their moral point of view. The character of each 
w^as formed by his religion. The theory of life of each 
demanded education. Each held to his form of truth 
and stood ready, and even counted it a glory, for an 
opportunity to fight for its prevalence, with a fierce in- 
tensity of conviction. 

Who that has scrutinized the lives and careers of 
John C. Calhoun and John Quincy Adams and Patrick 
Henry and Samuel Adams does not recognize their 
essential oneness in spirit and in character ? If Oliver 
Cromwell could have chosen his ideal soldier in the 
Civil War, who doubts that his choice would have 
fallen upon Stonewall Jackson ? The Scotch-Irishmen, 
under Jefferson, made the Valley of Virginia the foun- 
tain of American democracy, as New England had 
made her stony soil the nursery of free institutions and 
the nurse of the most alert mass of political intelligence 
the country ever knew. 



394 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Washington, Jefferson, Marshall, Madison and, 
Henry were the products of plantation and country 
government. Samuel Adams, John Hancock, John 
Adams, James Otis, and Joseph Warren were the prod- 
ucts of town meetings and of the congregation and 
free labor. In men, in imperialistic measures, and in 
great theories of government Virginia excelled. In 
efficient institutions and diffused intelligence New 
England excelled. 

In the grip of great economic forces these two groups 
of Englishmen thought deeply and differently about the 
meaning of liberty. Liberty continued to mean, as it 
had once meant in both sections, his home and his 
native State to the man of the South. It came to mean 
the right of any individual human being and the nation 
at large to the New Englander. To the Southerner 
the presence of the African on this soil grew to be more 
and more an economic fact, a problem of how to handle 
an alien system of labor. The intellectualism of the 
New Englander swept his section, in the middle of the 
nineteenth century, with a storm of enthusiasm for 
humanity, modifying his religion, his institutions, and 
his sense of responsibility for others to such an extent 
that the African, whom he had once held in slavery, 
became a great moral problem, appealing to his emo- 
tions and to his heart. Thus fate driven, these sec- 
tions came to war, the New Englander fighting for the 
liberty of the individual wherever seated and the 
majesty of the idea of union; the Southerner for the 
liberty of local self-government and the right of Eng- 
lishmen to determine their affairs, which was the orig- 
inal essence of the American idea of liberty. No war 
in human history was a sincerer conflict than the 
American Civil War. It was not a war of conquest or 



SECTIONALISM AND NATIONALITY 395 

glory. To call it rebellion is to speak ignorantly. To 
call it treason is to add viciousness to stupidity. It 
was a war of ideals, of principles, of political concep- 
tions, of loyalty to ancient ideals of English freedom 
held dearer than life by both sides. Neither aboli- 
tionist nor fire-eater brought on this war. It was a 
*' brothers' war," which ought to have been avoided, 
but which was brought on, as our human nature is 
constituted, by the operation of economic forces and 
the clashing of inherited feelings, woven by no will of 
either side into the life of the Republic. It was settled 
at last by neither abolitionist nor fire-eater, but by men 
of the West who had not inherited unbroken political 
traditions, but simply saw the union of American 
States as the ark of their salvation, and beheld its flag, 
as Webster beheld it, **full high advanced, floating over 
land and sea." 

Some great facts were forever settled by the war, but 
few great principles. A new American ideal of nation- 
ality was set up; the curse of slavery was removed, the 
indestructibility of the Union established, and a great 
debate in political philosophy was ended with a blow. 
The value to liberty of the idea of local self-government 
still remains, as before, the deepest and most vital prin- 
ciple in our national life. The doctrine of States* 
rights as a necessity of popular government is again 
engaging the thought of this Republic, because mightier 
forces than war are vitalizing this old issue under new 
forms, and those who understand it best and love it 
dearest and who will fight for it longest are those who 
live in the States where devotion to it once had power 
to separate them from a country they had fought to 
found. There is nothing stranger or more interesting 
in political history than the recurrence of this best- 



396 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

loved dogma of the South, unconnected with secession 
and unconfused with slavery, as necessary to Federal 
union and human freedom. If, as Mr. Root thinks — 
and I have the feeling that his speech is to be thought 
of as a prophecy and a warning rather than as a plea 
for centralization — the struggle is on between the grow- 
ing power of the Federal Government and the de- 
creasing authority of the States, you can count on the 
Southerner to be on the side of maintaining the just 
balance, for no American sees more clearly than he 
just what is the vital spot in the liberty of a State. He 
is a learner, albeit a rapid learner, in the art of using 
the machinery of local self-government to enrich and 
beautify a State, but he is a past master in the matter 
of insight into the very core of democratic freedom. 

Rid of its economic misconceptions, and proven fine 
steel by the ordeal of fire, the South has spent forty- 
five years in courageous industrial and political adjust- 
ment to the modern world, clinging the while to its old 
ideal of local liberty. This adjustment is about made. 
The grandeur of united nationality is fixed in the mind 
of the Southerner. He can enter into the mood of 
Marshall's decisions and Webster's peroration more 
perfectly to-day than at any time since the death of 
Jefferson. Civiii-zation has become to him an econom- 
ical as well as a sentimental fact. He can turn wood 
and spin cotton. He has just spun 25,000 more bales 
than the mills of New England. He, too, understands 
the value of the common man and the mouldi-ng power 
of popular education. The diffusion of political intelli- 
gence has substituted for him the lead'ership of com- 
munities for the leadership of men. The ingrained 
ethical and economic contrasts that set the two sections 
apart, between 1800 and 1860, made for the greatness 



SECTIONALISM AND NATIONALITY 397 

and the advantage of New England. This was her 
Golden Age, rendered glorious forever bv the fame of 
great poets and philosophers. Between 1870 and 1906 
these same forces have worked on the side of the South. 
Her Golden Age is yet to be. Excess of success, and 
replacement of its labor population, have tended to 
change the ideals of New England democracy, to 
destroy its homogeneity, to deaden and pervert some- 
what its idealism. I say this in the belief that it is still 
true that when men look for just statutes touching 
human affairs, as they grow in complexity they go to 
the statute books of the New England States, and 
there is no group of men on earth who respond more 
quickly to good causes with their hearts and their brains 
and their purses than the men of Boston and the 
region of which it is the model. The sincerity of 
Southern life during that period, however, its colossal 
burdens, its poverty-bred simplicity, its unyielding 
conservatism, its conception of government as some- 
thing to serve and love and not something to use and 
profit by, its patience and resolution and vast achieve- 
ment in real things, have increased its moral distinction 
and its sectional self-respect, have reinfused into its old 
idealism for steadfastness and pride of locality a splen- 
did quality of nationalism. Is it strange that all this 
should turn to it the eyes of a country that feels it to be 
the last repository of ancient freedom and ancient faiths ? 
And, in addition, it no longer spends all its strength in 
enduring and combating, but is learning to grow natu- 
rally, as New England has done, from the failure of the 
embargo to the passage of the Dingley Bill, inclusive. 

It is not always clear to students of American history 
that up to 1820 the seat of active nationalism and im- 



398 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

perialism was in the South. Unable through the in- 
fluences of slavery to engage in sincere debate with her- 
self, and exposed to the hostile and oftentimes ignorant 
criticism of the world, this attitude of buoyant growth 
soon changed to one of defence and introspection. The 
great nationalizing movement, which has occupied 
the mind of the world since 1840, possessed them both, 
but vast economic forces forced one view of nationality 
upon the South with war and destruction in its train, 
and another on New England with prosperity and 
material success in its train. The world warfare for 
trade found New England equipped as an athlete for the 
frav, and the South bound in shackles. The result 
of the Civil War, by producing a social and economic 
unification in the life of the South, has caused that life 
to assume a closer likeness to the social and economic 
life of New England. The centre of gravity has passed 
from the country to the city, in both sections. The 
men who formerly dominated the plantations are build- 
ing the cities and coming to Wall Street. The land of 
the country is being subdivided, and through better edu- 
cational facilities the era of diffused intelligence is 
rapidly coming. The one has grown rich, the other is 
growing rich. 

I am told that the South is getting rich at the rate 
of three million dollars a day, and sometimes I wonder, 
if that be true, why some of our college presidents do not 
stumble into more than we do. We should not com- 
plain of the generosity of our States. They are doing 
beautifully, but sometimes they remind me of the 
story of an old colored man whose employer said, ''Joe, 
how are you getting on ?" He replied, "I am having a 
lot of trouble with my family. My wife pesters me a 
lot by asking me for money. I come home at night 



SECTIONALISM AND NATIONALITY 399 

tired to death, nothing but work, work, work, all the 
time, and she says nothing but ' money, money, money. 
Give me a dollar, give me seventy-five cents, give me 
fifty cents.' " His employer said, "Joe, what on earth 
does she do with all that money?" And Joe replied, 
*'I don't know, I ain't give her none yet." 

In the fourth great moral crisis of the nation New 
England and the South are surely nearer together than 
at any time since the days of the fathers. The point of 
the modern struggle has shifted from liberty considered 
as inalienable community rights, or as nationality per- 
mitting the realization of a great destiny, to democracy 
itself, seeking to order its affairs so that opportunity may 
be equal and justice prevail in a world made over in 
power and purpose in twenty-five years. 

Our present democracy, so long concerned with in- 
terpretation of constitutions, now strikes at the very 
nature of the social order. No democracy has ever been 
tempted like this one. No democracy has ever been 
able to organize its forces like this one. No such field 
of exploitation has ever opened before any democracy, 
and never before has the current of the world's genius 
contributed to perfecting machinery for such vast ex- 
ploitation. No democracy ever dreamed how it would 
act if fabulous wealth, ever increasing through the 
agency of co-operation, had gone to its head. This is 
not a corrupt nation. Its currents are kindly and just 
and free and idealistic as of old. Its public men are 
honest and its merchants are honest. We are simply 
facing a new question in human liberty, a new phase of 
the ever-expanding content of democracy, how to re- 
tain in our system the priceless glory of individual ex- 
cellence and individual initiative, which is our deepest 
national instinct, and how to control in the interests of 



400 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

^justice the great co-operative forces which the plans of 
this giant age demand. The vastness of the issue, de- 
pending upon popular decision, gives to each election 
a sacred character, and to each humblest voter, work- 
ing to settle this matter in the orderly fashion of our 
fathers, the title of a soldier and a patriot; but to each 
man of whatever*rank, seeking to traffic and profit by it, 
all the infamy of a traitor and a renegade. These two 
eldest children of American life I love to believe still 
see the Republic of their fathers as a beautiful spiritual 
adventure. All the world's changes or noises cannot 
wipe out or hush their old solemn belief in its mission 
and its destiny and in the hopes that mankind has built 
about it. Who can be better fitted, then, to bring to it, 
in the perils that await all growing States, the best meas- 
ure of their tempered strength, each according to its sev- 
eral abilities — New England, her wealth of orderly 
knowledge, her patient habits of study, her technical 
power, her moral perception, her ability to translate 
democracy into forms of efficiency; the South, conser- 
vative and proud and honest, her best spiritual con- 
tribution to American life the purity of her thought 
about government, the unselfish attitude of her service 
to the State, her pride of region, and her love of home ? 



EDUCATION AND PROGRESS 401 

EDUCATION AND PROGRESS^ 

BY BENJAMIN H. HILL 

In the present, far more than in any preceding age 
ideas govern mankind. Not individuals nor societies, 
not kings nor emperors, not fleets nor armies, but 
ideas — educated intellects — using and controlling all 
these, as does the mechanic his tools, uproot dynasties, 
overturn established systems, subvert and reorganize 
governments, revolutionize social fabrics, and direct 
civilization. True, we have the most wonderful physi- 
cal developments — as marvellous in character as they 
are rapid in multiplication. Whether we look to the 
engines of war or the arts of peace, to the means of de- 
struction or the appliances for preservation, to the facili- 
ties for distribution or the sources of production and 
accumulation, we shall find nothing in the past com- 
parable to the achievements of the present. But all 
these gigantic elements of physical power are but the 
fruits of educated minds — have leaped into being at 
the command of ideas, and they are under the abso- 
lute command of ideas; and whether they shall really 
promote or destroy civilizations must depend alto- 
gether upon the wise or unwise discretion of this om- 
nipotent commander. Thought is the Hercules of this 
age, and his strength is equally a vigorous fact, whether 
it be employed in throttling the lion of power or in 
cleaning out the Augean stables of accumulated social 
errors. Moving by nations, by races, and by systems, 

^ Extract from a speech delivered before the Alumni Society 
of the University of Georgia, Athens, Ga., July 31, 1871. 



402 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

this irresistible ruler — educated thought — is setting 
aside old and setting up new civilizations at will. 

It is not my purpose now to analyze the different 
civilizations which are competing in the great struggle 
to lead humanity, nor to select any one for prominent 
advocacy. Nor must I be understood as saying that 
that which changes always reforms, nor yet, that every 
apparent triumph is a just progress. But this much 
I affirm is true: that community, that people, that 
nation — nay, that race or that system which, Dioge- 
nes-like, will now content itself with living in its own 
tub, asking nothing of the conquering powers around 
it except that they stand out of its sunshine, will soon 
find itself in hopeless darkness, the object of deri- 
sion for its helplessness, and of contempt for its folly. 
Whether civilizations, on the whole, be going forward 
or going backward, the result must be the same to those 
who insist on standing still — they must be overwhelmed. 
Because all the world is, therefore each portion of the 
world musty be awake and thinking — up and acting. 
Nor can we afford to waste time and strength in de- 
fence of theories and systems, however valued in their 
day, which have been swept down by the moving 
avalanche of actual events. No system which has 
fallen and been destroyed in the struggles of the past 
will ever be able to rise and grapple with the increasing 
power of its conqueror in the future. We can live 
neither in nor hy the defeated past, and if we would live 
in the growing, conquering future, we must furnish our 
strength to shape its course and our will to discharge 
its duties. The pressing question, therefore, with every 
people is, not what they have been, but whether and 
what they shall determine to be ; not what their fathers 
were, but whether and what their children shall be. 



EDUCATION AND PROGRESS 403 

God in events — mysteriously, it may be, to us — has 
made the educated men in the South, of this genera- 
tion, the Hving leaders of thought for a great and a 
noble people, but a people bewildered by the suddenness 
with which they have been brought to one of those junc- 
tures in human affairs when one civilization abruptly 
ends and another begins. I feel oppressed with a sense 
of fear that we shall not be equal to the unusual re- 
sponsibilities this condition imposes, unless we can deal 
frankly with these events, frankly with ourselves, and 
bravely with our very habits of thought. Though un- 
justly, even cruelly slain, brave survivors lie not down 
with the dead, but rise up resolved all the more to be 
leaders and conquerors with and for the living. 

No period in the history and fortunes of our State 
was ever half so critical as the present. And in this 
anxious hour — this crisis of her fate — to whom shall 
the State look with hope if not to her own educated 
sons ? Who shall stay the coming of Philip, if Atheni- 
ans abandon Greece ? Who shall save our Rome from 
the clutch of the despot and the tread of the vandal, if 
our Antonies still madly follow the fleeing, faithless, 
fallen African? 

Gentlemen, we cannot escape the responsibility press- 
ing upon us. If we prove unequal to our duties now, 
then a State, with every natural gift but worthy sons, 
appropriated by others, must be the measure of our 
shame in the future. But if we prove equal to those 
duties now, then a State surpassed by none in wealth, 
worth, and power, will be the glory that is waiting to 
reward our ambition. 

And we shall escape this shame and win this glory if 
we now fully comprehend and manfully act upon three 



404 SOUTHERxN PROSE AND POETRY 

predicate propositions: first, that the civihzation pe- 
ciihar to the Southern States hitherto has passed away, 
and forever; second, that no new civihzation can be 
equal to tlie demands of the age which does not lay its 
foundations in the intelligence of the people and in 
the multiplication and social elevation of educated in- 
dustries; third, that no system of education for the 
people, and for the multiplication of the industries, can 
be complete, or efficient, or available, which does not 
begin with an ample, well-endowed, and independent 
university. 

These three postulates embody the triunity of all our 
hope as a people. Here the work of recovery must 
begin — and in this way alone, and by you alone, can it 
be begun. The educated men of the South, of this 
generation, must be responsible for the future of the 
South. The educated men of Georgia now before me 
must be responsible for the future of Georgia. That 
future will be anything you now command. From 
every portion of this dear old Commonwealth there 
comes this day an earnest, anxious voice, saying to you. 
Shall we command, or shall we serve? Shall we rise, 
or fall yet lower ? Shall we live, or shall we die ? 

Gathering in my own the voices of you all, and with 
hearts resolved and purposes fixed, I send back the glad- 
dening response: We shall live! We shall rise! We 
shall command ! We have given up the dusky Helen — 
pity we kept the harlot so long! True, alas. Hector ^ is 
dead, and Priam^ is dethroned; and Troy, proud Troy, 
has glared by the torch, and crumbled 'neath the blows, 

^ For accounts of Hector and Priam, recall the old story of 
the War of the Trojans with the Greeks which Vergil immortali'zes 
in the ^neid, and the chronicles of which have been sung by 
many tongues in many lands. 



THE SCHOOL THAT BUILT A TOWN 405 

and wept 'mid the jeers of the revelHng Greeks in every 
household. But more than a hundred iEneases^ live! 
On more than a hundred broader, deeper Tibers we will 
found greater cities, rear richer temples, raise loftier 
towers, until all the world shall respect and fear, and 
even the Greeks shall covet, honor, and obey! 

THE SCHOOL THAT BUILT A 
TOWN^ 

BY WALTER HINES PAGE 

I HEARTILY thank you for your invitation to come 
here; for I think that your school stands for as useful 
work as any work done in the world. 

The training of children in the public schools gives 
exercise to the highest qualities — sympathy, self-sacri- 
fice, the love of every human creature and the love of 
our country. These are the virtues that make men and 
women strong and lovely. 

Your work also brings results of the highest value. 
The American people of this generation are a people of 
great practical skill; but the American people of the 
next generation, the Georgians among them if you do 
your task well, will be the most efficient people on the 
earth. 

Your work, too, is free from doubt. There is work 

that men must do without enthusiasm. There is work 

that brings only the unrelieved weariness of toil and a 

plodding gait. But the direct value of what you do is 

' Ibid, 

^ An address delivered at the Commencement of the State 
Normal School at Athens, Ga., December 11, 1901. 

By permission of Doubleday, Page and Company and the author. 



406 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

free from doubt in all sound minds; for you are building 
the noblest fabric of society, which is a world-conquer- 
ing trained democracy. Whatever others may be doing, 
then, you are working with the central secret of human 
progress; and it is an inspiration to see you. 

And now, if I can repay you at all, it must be by 
telling you the story of the school that built a town. 

It is the town of Northwood. Its early history is 
like the early history of hundreds of other American 
towns. The people who lived there were merchants, 
lawyers, preachers, doctors; a rich man or two; a few 
men that had workshops and those that worked for 
them: carpenters, clerks, laborers, a few loafers, a 
few rumsellers — the same kind of population that you 
could find almost anywhere in the Union. They were 
people of sturdy stock and good qualities. Most of 
them were of American parentage; but there were 
Germans, Irish, Jews, and two Frenchmen — one a 
dancing-master, who taught fencing also, and the other 
a teacher of his language. And life went on there as 
life goes on in all such communities. The people were 
pretty well off. When court was in session many 
countrymen came to town, and all the loafers gathered 
about the court-house, and the lawyers gave the hotel 
an air of importance as if it were a big hotel in a big 
town. The farmers filled the market place on Saturday 
and the stores and the grog-shops drove a thriving trade. 
But the savings-bank had many depositors, the churches 
were well filled on Sunday, and the Sunday-schools 
swarmed with pretty children; for it was a town of 
large families. 

And there were schools, of course. One was kept by 
a good lady who had studied French and music in her 



THE SCHOOL THAT BUILT A TOWN 407 

youth and who held on in her widowhood to the memo- 
ries of her triumphs which still threw a gentle halo over 
her. She taught at her home a group of the best-bred 
children of the town. She taught them to speak with 
a certain prim correctness, and at the end of every term 
she coached them to stand in their pretty frocks and 
clean breeches in a pretty row and to recite pretty 
verses and to make a pretty bow to their mothers. They 
took home good reports and their parents said that they 
were very fortunate to have so cultivated a lady to 
teach their children. 

There was another school kept by another lady. 
She was young and energetic and she put emphasis on 
modern methods of education. She had the real French- 
man to teach French. She laid great stress on calis- 
thenics and she put on gymnasium clothes herself and 
led the children in their exercises. She was a young 
woman of great physical vigor, and naturally the chil- 
dren of strenuous parents came to her school and they 
boasted that she made it her business to teach, not to 
confer a social distinction on her pupils. 

Then there was a school for boys at which they were 
prepared for business or for college, and it was a good 
academy of the old sort. Two men owned and con- 
ducted it. One was an old-fashioned scholar who made 
the boys learn the Latin grammar by heart, and who 
flogged them when they failed; and he was looked upon 
as men afar off look upon stern Learning. If you 
could have taken the popular conception of the Higher 
Education, clothed it in flesh and put a plug hat on it, 
you would have had that man. If you had met him in 
the street for the first time, you would have known his 
calling and could have guessed his history; for he had 
won prizes at the university in his classical studies. It 



40S SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

was sometimes said that he recited Horace to himself 
with his eyes shut while he pretended to look at the 
boys play baseball. His partner was a book-keeper 
and a business man who taught the boys that were 
taking the commercial course to keep accounts and 
to write a plain hand; and he taught the English 
branches also. The boys who attended this school were 
the sons of the best-to-do families of the town, and there 
were boarding pupils too. 

Then still another school was established in North- 
wood when the town had grown a little bigger. This 
was a seminary for young ladies, and it was a church- 
school. A preacher and his wife were the principals; 
and, besides the girls that lived in the town, a good 
many came from a distance. The church had supplied 
the money to build a large house for it, and the young 
ladies' seminary was one of the things that a part of 
the town was proudest of. Most of its pupils came 
from families that held the faith of the church that had 
built it. The girls of other religious faiths were sent 
away to finishing schools which were under the man- 
agement of their own churches. 

Nor were the poor forgotten; for the people took 
pride also in providing a public school. The building 
was not large, nor the equipment worth mentioning; 
and two voung women were eno^aojed at verv low sal- 
aries to conduct it. They were generally selected be- 
cause they needed the salaries; and the teachers were 
changed every year or two, sometimes because they 
got tired, and sometimes because they got married, but 
oftenest because there were other young women who 
wanted the places, and turn about was regarded as 
fair play. 

No man could say, therefore, that North wood was 



THE SCHOOL THAT BUILT A TOWN 409 

not well supplied with schools. When a stranger went 
to the town, the people boasted to him of their zeal in 
education. But the town grew bigger, and almost 
every year there were changes in the schools. One year 
the cultivated old lady's school for children was split 
into two, not because of anything that happened in the 
school, but because of a church quarrel in the social 
set that patronized it. Another year the dismissal of 
a teacher in the young ladies' seminary caused a heated 
discussion throughout the church, and two factions 
sprung up. The resignation of the principal's wife 
was demanded; and the principal himself had the hard 
fortune to be obliged to choose between his wife and 
his ecclesiastical superiors. All these unhappy events 
caused much gossip at the tea-parties of the other 
churches, and one of them established a modest school 
for girls of its own. It was this same year that the 
sturdy old master of the boys' school died, and so many 
people lacked confidence in his partner that its patron- 
age seriously fell off. In a year or two he ceased to 
teach and became a life-insurance agent. A young 
scholar from the university then came and took up the 
remnants of the school and did the best he could with it. 
During these eight or ten years of such recurrent mis- 
fortunes there grew up perhaps half a dozen more 
schools for children. Almost every social set found that 
there was a lady in it who had some particular reason 
for teaching, and her friends of course sent their children 
to her; and thus the educational advantages of the 
town continued to be unusual. For, with every social 
division among the people and with every church differ- 
ence, schools continued to multiply. 

These events in the life of the town covered a good 
many years. It had grown somewhat; but it had not 



410 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

grown rapidly. It was essentially the same kind of 
town that it had been ten years before. Yet important 
changes had been going on, and the most important was 
the change in the public school. It became so crowded 
with the children of the poorer class that it was neces- 
sary to build a second school-house. This was built in 
the end of the town where well-to-do people lived, and 
more and more of them took to sending their children 
to it. 

About that time a greater interest was taken in public- 
school education throughout the State. The university 
had been made free to every pupil in the Common- 
wealth who was prepared to enter it, and the public- 
school system was much talked about and developed. 

It so happened that the principal of one of the public 
schools in Northwood at that time was an uncommonly 
energetic man — a man who knew how to manage men. 
He made a very careful study of the population, and 
this is what he found — that, in spite of all the schools 
in the town, there were a great many children that were 
not at school at all. There were many more of them 
than anybody would have believed. He found also 
that even those that got a smattering of book-learning 
got nothing else, and that few received further instruc- 
tion than the schools in the town gave. He made a 
list of all the families in Northwood, and it filled a book 
almost as big as a banker's ledger. He put down in it 
the boys and the girls whose education was prematurely 
arrested. One night he sat down with the summary of 
this book before him, and he said to himself, ''These 
people are not in earnest about education; they are 
simply playing with it and are fooling themselves." 

He showed this summary first to one man, then to 
another. In this way first one man and then another 



THE SCHOOL THAT BUILT A TOWN 411 

was led to think about the subject in a new way. I 
need not tire you with the details of the agitation that 
followed, for it extended over many years. But the 
result was that a third public school was built. Then 
some time later a high-school was built. In a few years 
it was found inadequate, and the building was used as 
still another primary public school and a larger house 
was put up for the high-school. By this time the 
public schools had ceased to be regarded as schools for 
the poor. They were the best schools in the town, and 
almost all the people in the town sent their children to 
them. Long ago the old scramble about teachers had 
ceased. Influential citizens had stopped trying to get 
places for their widowed daughters-in-law and their 
wives' nieces in the schools because they needed work. 
Only well-trained teachers, as a rule, w^ere engaged. 
The best men in the town served on the school-board, 
and they had got so tired of the scramble for places 
that they had a law passed by the legislature which per- 
mitted them to appoint a school director, who in turn 
could himself appoint teachers, and nobody else could. 
They held him responsible; and, since he was not 
elected, he had no temptation to appoint incompetent 
ones. 

With the feeling of security, every school principal 
and teacher became courageous. Especially coura- 
geous was the principal of the high-school. He put 
a carpenter-shop in the basement which developed into 
a wood-working department, and he graded the pupils 
on their course in wood-work just as he graded them 
in any book study. This pleased the people. They 
said that he was ^'practical.'' But he took the trouble 
to explain that he was not training carpenters, and he 
insisted that they must not misunderstand him. 



412 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

But the plan was so popular that a well-to-do builder, 
whose son had taken a great interest in the wood- 
working course, gave the school a very much better shop. 
Then by some other stroke of good luck (I've for- 
gotten the details of the story) a shop was added for 
work in iron — a little shop, almost a toy-shop; but the 
children were taught there. Then came a garden, for 
a quarter of an acre was set aside and the children 
learned to plant and to work things that grow. In the 
meantime a small chemical laboratory had been fitted 
up, and a physical laboratory as well. Then a separate 
building was given for use as a gymnasium. Somebody 
gave a small library. At a public meeting a year or 
two later it was decided to build a public library next 
the school-house. 

Workshops, a garden, laboratories, a library, a gym- 
nasium — there were other things as well. A kitchen 
v/as built and the girls were taught to cook. Then a 
dozen other things came along, such as basket-making; 
singing was taught uncommonly well, and nearly all 
the young people learned to sing. And the school had 
an orchestra. Every boy and girl took a course of 
work with the hands as well as with the head; and it 
was discovered that the head-work was the better done 
for the hand- work. 

At last a generation had grown up that had been 
educated in the public schools of Northwood. Nearly 
every useful man in the town and most -of the useful 
women were high-school graduates. They made the 
social life of the town. The doctor, the dentist, the 
preacher, the mayor, even the Governor, most of the 
merchants, the owner of a knitting mill, the owner of 
a furniture factory, the owner of a great tin shop, the 
owner of a wagon factory — all sorts of successful men 



THE SCHOOL THAT BUILT A TOWN 413 

had been graduated at this school and most of them 
had got the impulse there that shaped their careers. 

And the high-school was both the intellectual and 
the industrial centre of the town and of the region. 
The scholars went there to the library; the farmers 
went there to consult the chemist or the entomologist; 
men of almost all crafts and callings found an authority 
there. For this high-schaol had now become what we 
should call a college and a very well-organized one 
too. 

In the first period of Northwood's history, you will 
observe, the town carried the schools — carried them as 
a burden. The schools of the cultivated widow, the 
strenuous young lady, and the old-fashioned scholar, 
and the young ladies' seminary, much as the several 
sets and sects each boasted of its own institution, were 
really tolerated rather than generously supported. The 
principals had to beg for them in one form or other. 
The public school was regarded as a sort of orphan 
asylum for the poor. The whole educational work of 
the town was on a semi-mendicant basis; or it was half 
a sort of social function, half a sort of charity. It 
really did not touch the intellectual life of the people. 
They supported it. It did not lift them. The town 
carried the schools as social and charitable burdens. 

Now this is all changed. The school has made the 
town. It has given nearly every successful man in it 
his first impulse in his career, and it has given the com- 
munity great renown. Teachers from all over the 
country go there to see it. More than that, many pupils 
go from a distance to enter the high-school. More than 
that, men have gone there to live because of the school. 
They go there to establish industries of various sorts, 
because the best expert knowledge of every craft can 



414 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

be found there. The town has prospered and has been 
rebuilt. The architects are high-school men; the en- 
gineers who graded the streets and made a model 
system of sewers are high-school men; the roads were 
laid out by high-school men. There is a whole county 
of model farms and dairies and good stock farms. 
High-school men have in this generation made the com- 
munity a new community. *They conduct all sorts of 
factories — they make furniture, they make things of 
leather, they make things of wrought iron; they have 
hundreds of small industries. It is said that a third of 
the houses in the town contain home-made furniture 
after beautiful old patterns that the owners themselves 
have made. And there is one man who does inlaid 
work in wood. And all this activity clusters about the 
public schools. The high-school now not only affects 
but it may be said to dominate the life of the town; and 
this is the school that has built the town, for it has given 
everybody an impetus and has started nearly everybody 
toward an occupation. It has enabled them to find 
their own aptitudes. 

Now there is all the difference in the world between 
the Northwood of this generation, and the Northwood 
of the generation before. It is a difference so great that 
it cannot be told in one morning. But the change is 
simply the result of a changed view of education. 



The diploma given by the school tells something 
more definite than most diplomas tell, and every 
diploma does not tell the same thing. One recites 
what courses of study a boy has taken and how well he 
has mastered them. But it tells also that he can 
swim well, that he can do work in iron, that he can 



THE SCHOOL THAT BUILT A TOWN 415 

draw, that he has good muscles. It tells, too, that he 
is persistent and plucky, and that he is unselfish and 
thrifty. The diploma is made to fit the boy, not the 
boy to fit the diploma. It tells what sort of boy he is, 
what he has done, and what he is good for. A diploma 
given to a girl likewise tells frankly the character and 
the equipment of that particular girl; for the people of 
Northwood are so much in earnest about education 
that they have learned to be perfectly frank. The 
diploma will tell that the girl is of sound body, that she 
can sing, that she can row, and it plainly says that she 
has good manners; it tells her good qualities of mind 
and of temper, as well as the success with which she 
has pursued her studies. It tells that she can lay out 
and work a garden of roses or of potatoes. If all the 
diplomas given to all the graduates were the same, they 
would not value them. 

The school, you understand, is not a mere workshop, 
nor is it a place to learn a trade. It does not make 
carpenters of boys nor cooks of girls. Nor does it 
make Greek scholars or poets or musicians of them. 
But it comes as near to making them the one thing as 
the other. It comes as near to making cooks and 
chemists and farmers as it comes to making scholars. 
For those high-schools and colleges that teach only 
books and train only the mind and not the hands — they 
do not really make scholars as we used to suppose that 
they did. The utmost that they do is to teach the boy 
the rudiments of scholarship and the method of work 
by which, if he persist, he may some day become a 
scholar. This school does the same thing in scholar- 
ship, but it does also a corresponding thing in hand- 
work. The old kind of teachers simply fooled them- 
selves and misled their pupils and the community when 



416 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

they assumed that their courses in Hterature and the 
Hke made scholars. And what a wasteful self-decep- 
tion it was! In North wood one boy may, if he persist, 
become a scholar; another a wheelwright; another a 
farmer; and so on. And it is found that by doing 
hand-work also the pupils do better head-work as well. 
It simply opens to all the intellectual life and the way 
to useful occupations at the same time. 

There are two things that they are all taught in that 
school. They are taught to write a plain hand-writing, 
and they look upon a bad hand- writing a^ they look 
upon neglect of dress — it is the mark of a cloven. And 
they are all taught to wTite the English language in 
short clear sentences, so that anybody can understand 
w^hat they write. 

Now let us see how the people of Northwood them- 
selves look at education. The simplicity of the work 
of the school is what first strikes you. And j^ou find 
this same simplicity in the people's conception of edu- 
cation. They do not call it education. They call it 
training. They speak of a boy as trained in Greek 
or in metal- work; and of a girl as trained to sing or to 
draw or to cook. This frank and simple way of look- 
ing at school-work has changed their whole conception 
of education. It has brushed aw^ay a vast amount of 
nonsense, and cleaned the mind of a great accumula- 
tion of cobwebs. For one thing nobody in that town 
makes addresses on the need of education. A man 
would as soon think of making an address on the neces- 
sity of the atmosphere, or of fuel, or of bread. And- 
you never hear anything about elaborate systems of 
education, or the co-ordination of studies, or the psy- 
chology of the unrelated. 

They look at the trades and the professions in the 



THE SCHOOL THAT BUILT A TOWN 417 

same simple way. They say that one man has been 
trained as a physician, that another has been trained 
as a farmer, that another has been trained as a preacher, 
that another has been trained as a builder, another as a 
machinist; and they lay less stress on what a man 
chooses to do than upon the way in which he does it. 
It is respectable to have any calling you like, provided 
you are trained to it; but it isn't respectable to have any 
calling unless you are trained. The town for this rea- 
son is not divided into the same sort of sets and classes 
that you find in most towns. There is not one class 
that puts on airs and regards itself as the Educated 
Class, to which all other classes are supposed to pay 
deference. Of course some men read more books than 
others; some are more cultivated than others, and 
there are social divisions of the people there as there are 
the world over. But when everybody knows how to do 
something welly a man who does one thing well enjoys 
no particular distinction. A jackleg lawyer can't 
compel any great respect from a really scientific horse- 
shoer. The mastery of anything is a wonderful ele- 
vator of character and judgment. 

Next to their simple and straightforward way of 
looking at education what strikes you most about the 
people of Northwood is their universal interest in the 
school. Apparently everybody has now been trained 
there. But when one man thinks of the school he 
thinks of the library; another of the laboratory;^ an- 
other of the workshop; another of music; another of 
chemistry. Books are only one kind of tools, and the 
other kinds are co-ordinate with them. And every- 
body goes to the great school-house more or less often. 
The singers give their concerts there. I was there once 
when a young man gave a performance of a musical 



418 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

composition of his own, and at another time when a 
man showed the first bicycle that had been made in the 
town. In three months he had a bicycle factory. 
Everybody is linked to the school by his work, and 
there is, therefore, no school party and no anti-school 
party in local politics. There is no social set that 
looks down on the school. The school built the town, 
and it is the town. It has grown beyond all social 
distinctions and religious differences and differences of 
personal fortune. It has united the people, and they 
look upon it as the training place in which everybody 
is interested alike, just as they look upon the court- 
house as the place where every man is on the same 
footing. The fathers of our liberties made the court- 
house every man's house. The equally important 
truth is that we must, in the same way, make the 
public school-house everybody's house before we can 
establish the right notion of education. 



Education, Ladies and Gentlemen, when it is dallied 
with, played with, tolerated, and imperfectly done, is 
a costly and troublesome thing. In the first place it is 
talked to death. It causes more discussion than poli- 
tics or than bad crops. There are many persons who 
do not believe in it, and many more who wish they did 
not, and could get rid of the bother of it. 

But when education becomes not only part and par- 
cel of the life of the people, but a thing that they have 
all profited by — a thing that underlies life as the soil 
underlies the growth in the garden — then education 
becomes cheap and easy. Nobody asks what it costs, 
nobody questions its benefits, nobody harbors a doubt 
about it. 



THE SCHOOL THAT BUILT A TOWN 419 

In one case the community grudgingly supports its 
schools as a burden. In the other case the schools 
build the community. And this is the lesson of North- 
wood. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 

Edwin Anderson Alderman was born in Wilmington, North 
Carolina, May 15, 1861, and is now living in Charlottesville, Vir- 
ginia. He was educated at Bethel Military Academy, Virginia, 
and at the University of North Carolina, and holds many honor- 
ary degrees. He has been interested in educational work in 
the South since his graduation, having been superintendent of 
schools in Goldsboro, N. C, professor of English at the State 
Normal College, assistant State superintendent of schools, pro- 
fessor of pedagogy at the University of North Carolina, president 
of the University of North Carolina, and president of Tulane 
University. He is now president of the University of Virginia. 

Writings: Life of William Hooper; School History of North 
Carolina; Life of J. L. M. Curry; a series of reading books, and 
various addresses published in pamphlet form. 

James Lane Allen was born near Lexington, Kentucky, 
in 1849, and is living in New York City. He attended the 
University of Kentucky and taught for some years in the public 
and private schools of his native State. He acted as tutor for 
a few years, and taught two years in Bethany College, but finally 
resigned to give his entire attention to literature. 

Writings: Life in the Blue Grass; White Cowl; Flute and 
Violin, and Other Stories; John Gray; Sister Dolores; A Ken- 
tucky Cardinal; The Choir Invisible; The Mettle of the Pasture; 
A Summer in Arcady; The Bride of the Mistletoe. 

John James Audubon was born near New Orleans in 1780, 
and died at Minniesland, now Audubon Park, near New York 
City in 1851. He was educated in France, devoting most of the 
time to the study of painting. He was in charge of a country 

421 



422 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

estate of his father's; was also a merchant, but was unsuccessful 
in his various business ventures. He knew more about birds, 
flowers, etc., and became famed as a naturalist. 

Writings: The Birds of America, five volumes on biographies 
of birds and four volumes of portraits of birds. The book en- 
titled Quadrupeds of America was compiled from his notes by 
his sons and Rev. John Buchanan. There are only eight sets 
of his works in existence, one of which is in the State Library 
of North Carolina. 



John Henry Boner was bom in Salem, North Carolina, 
in 1845; died in Washington, D. C, March 6, 1903. He was 
the editor of papers in Salem and Asheville, N. C; in 1869-70 
was chief clerk of the North Carolina House of Representatives; 
and in 1871 entered the Government service in Washington, D. C. 
He afterwards served as editor of the New York World, on the 
staff of The Century Dictionary, and was editor of The Literary 
Digest. He gave up his work on account of impaired health, 
but returned to Washington and acted as proof-reader at the 
Government Printing Office for a while, though he was soon 
compelled to give up this work on account of a general decline 
in health. 

Writings: His first volume of poetry was published in 1883 and 
was called Whispering Pines; the one from which the two poems 
included in this book were selected is entitled Boner's Lyrics. 

George Washington Cable was bom in New Orleans, 
Louisiana, October 12, 1844; he lives at Northampton, Massachu- 
setts. He left school early and was a clerk until the Civil War be- 
gan, when he served in the Fourth Mississippi Cavalry. After the 
war he was a surveyor, clerk in a cotton factor's office, a reporter 
for the New Orleans Picayune, and a contributor to Scribner's 
Magazine. In 1879 he dropped all other professions for that of 
literature and has since devoted most of his time to writing, lec- 
turing, and philanthropy. In 1897 he became editor of Current 
Literature. He founded the Home Culture Clubs. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 423 

Writings: Old Creole Days; The Grandissimes ; Madame 
Delphine; Dr. Sevier; The Silent South; The Negro Question; 
Strange True Tales of Louisiana; John March, Southerner; 
The Cavalier; Bylow Hill; Bonaventure; Strong Hearts; 
Bu^y Man's Bible; Life of William Gilmore Simms. 

John Caldwell Calhoun was born in Abbeville, South Car- 
olina, March 18, 1782, and died in Washington, D. C, March 31, 
1850. He was a graduate of Yale University, and studied law. 
He held many political offices, being a member of the State 
Legislature, Member of Congress, Vice-President, Secretary of 
War, and Secretary of State. He was a most brilliant speaker and 
a great statesman, being a leading exponent of "States Rights." 

Writings: Speeches and State papers (six volumes); Letters 
(one volume). 

Madison Julius Cawein was born in Louisville, Kentucky 
March 23, 1865. He was graduated from the high school at 
Louisville, and has since devoted himself to literature. 

Writings: Accolon of Gaul; Moods and Memories; Red 
Leaves and Roses; Undertones; Weeds by the Wall; Kentucky 
Poems; The White Snake; Blooms of the Berry; Triumph of 
Music; Lyrics and Idyls; Days and Dreams; Poems of Nature 
and Love; Garden of Dreams; Myth and Romance; A Voice on 
the Wind; Vale of Tempe; Nature Notes and Impressions; 
Shapes and Shadows; Idyllic Monologues. 

Henry Clay was born in Hanover County, Virginia, April 12, 
1777, and died in Washington D. C, June 29, 1852. He 
studied law with Chancellor Wythe and with Attorney-Gene- 
ral Brooke, of Virginia. He removed to Lexington, Ken- 
tucky, when he was twenty years old. In 1803 he was elected 
a member of the Kentucky Legislature. He was appointed 
United States Senator in 1806; was Speaker of the House of 
Representatives for fourteen years; and served as Secretary of 
State under President John Quincy Adams. He spent the years 
between 1832 and 1852 in the United States Senate. 



424 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Writings: Speeches (of which several collections have been 
made). 

John Esten Cooke was born in Winchester, Virginia, Novem- 
ber 3, 1830, and died in Clarke County, Virginia, September 27, 
1886. He studied law under his father, but preferred literature 
as a life work. In 1861 he entered the army, serving on the 
staffs of Jackson and Stuart, and finally became Inspector- 
General of the horse artillery of the Army of Northern Virginia. 
Immediately after the close of the war, he resumed literary work 
and continued to write historical romances till the day of his 
death. 

Writings: Leather Stocking and Silk; Youth of Jefferson; 
Surry of the Eagle's Nest; Virginia Comedians; Last of the For- 
esters; Mohun; Out of the Foam; Ellie; Heir of Gaymount; 
Dr. Vandyke; Pretty Mrs. Gaston, etc.; Professor Pressensee; 
Virginia Bohemians; Maurice Mystery; Her Majesty the Queen; 
Henry St. John; Hilt to Hilt; Stories of the Old Dominion; 
Canolles; Fairfax; Hammer and Rapier; Mr. Grantley's Idea; 
My Lady Pocahontas; Wearing of the Gray. 

Philip Pendleton Cooke was born in Martinsburg, Virginia 
(nowWestVirginia), October 26, 1816, and died in Clarke County, 
Virginia, January 20, 1850. He was graduated from Princeton 
University in 1834, and afterward studied law. He began to 
practice law in 1836, but spent most of his life in the more con- 
genial pursuits of a country gentleman, writing stories for various 
magazines as a pastime. 

Writings: Froissart Ballads and Other Poem^; John Carpe; 
Gregories of Hackwood; Crime of Andrew Blair, and several 
romances. 

Charles Egbert Craddock (Miss Mary Noailles Mur- 
free) was born near Murfreesboro, Tennessee, January 24, 
1850, and is now living there. She was educated in Nashville 
and Philadelphia. A stroke of paralysis when she was a child 
left her slightly lame. For this reason she was unable to romp 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 425 

with other children, and consequently she concentrated her vast 
energy upon study. Her writings were first contributed to 
Appleton's Journal, then to The Atlantic Monthly. Her pen 
name completely hid her identity, and when she visited the edi- 
torial rooms and announced who she was, the editors were com- 
pletely dumfounded. She takes partic"ular pains to make her 
stories accurate, and has spent much time looking up questions 
of science, law, or anything else which she wishes to use in her 
characterizations . 

Writings: In the Tennessee Mountains; Down the Ravine; 
In the Clouds; Despot of Broomsedge Cove; Phantom of Foot- 
bridge; Where the Battle was Fought; Prophet of the Great 
Smoky Mountains; Story of Keedon Bluffs; In the Stranger 
People's Country; His Vanished Star; The Jugglers; The 
Champion; The Frontiersman; The Story of Old Fort Loudon; 
The Spectre of Power; The Windfall; The Fair Mississip- 
pian. 

David Crockett was born in Limestone, Green County, 
Tennessee, August 17, 1786, and died in the massacre of the 
survivors of the Alamo. He was a hunter and pioneer, leading a 
wild and free life in the mountains of Tennessee. He served in 
the War of 1812. At the close of this war he became interested 
in politics, and in spite of his deficient education became a 
magistrate, and also served several terms in Congress. In 1835, 
on account of opposition to Andrew Jackson, he abandoned poli- 
tics and again became a soldier, fighting in the war against 
Mexico. 

Writings: Autobiography, and an account of a tour in the 
North and New England. 

John Fox was born in Stony Point, Bourbon County, Ken- 
tucky. His present home is Big Stone Gap, Virginia, but he 
spends much time in New York City. He attended the University 
of Kentucky and Harvard University. He intended to study 
law, but a chance visit to the borders of Kentucky with some 
friends who were in quest of adventure, and who hoped to 



426 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

profit by a temporary boom, diverted him from this plan. He 
saw the picturesqueness of the Hfe and began to write stories 
about it. They attained such immediate popularity that he was 
led to adopt literature as his profession. 

Writings : A Mountain Europa ; A Cumberland Vendetta; 
The Kentuckians; The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come; Blue- 
grass and Rhododendron; Hell-fer-Sartain and Other Stories; 
Following the Sun-Flag; Christmas Eve on Lonesome and Other 
Stories; A Knight of the Cumberland; The Trail of the Lone- 
some Pine. 

Ellen Anderson Gholson Glasgow was born in Rich- 
mond, Virginia, April 22, 1874, and still claims this city as her 
home. She was educated privately and has travelled extensively. 
She takes an active interest in public affairs of the day, particu- 
larly in the question of equal suffrage for women. 

Writings: The Descendant; The Phases of an Inferior Planet; 
The Voice of the People; The Battle Ground; The Deliverance; 
The Wheel of Life; The Ancient Law; The Freeman and Other 
Poems; The Romance of a Plain Man. 

Henry Woodfin Grady was born in Athens, Georgia, May 
17, 1851, and died in Atlanta, Georgia, December 23, 1889. He 
was graduated from the University of Georgia and studied at the 
University of Virginia. His first writing was contributed to the 
Atlanta Constitution; his first editorial work was done for the 
Rome Courier. He established the Herald in Atlanta, but on ac- 
count of financial failure the paper was discontinued, and he went 
to New York and was assigned work by the New York Herald. 
In 1880 he bought a fourth interest in the Constitution and 
became managing editor. He was the moving spirit in the 
Atlanta Exposition. He organized the Piedmont Chautauqua, 
and delivered many speeches designed to advance the industrial 
progress of the South and to heal the differences between the 
North and South. 

Writings: Speeches and editorials collected in the Memorial 
Volume edited by Joel Chandler Harris; The New South. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 427 

Joel Chandler Harris was bom in Eatonton, Georgia, 
December 9, 1848, and died at "Sign of the Wren's Nest," his 
home in West End, a suburb of Atlanta, Georgia, July 3, 1908. 
He studied several years at Eatonton Academy, but left school at 
the age of twelve to go to the farm of a Mr. Turner, nine miles 
from Eatonton, to learn the printer's trade. Most of the train- 
ing for his future work was gained from the books in Mr. 
Turner's library, and from the negroes on the plantation who 
filled his mind with folk-lore. After the war he worked on 
various newspapers, finally becoming editor of the Forsyth Ad- 
vertiser. Later he was offered a place on the staff of the 
Savannah Daily News, where he remained from 1871 to 1876. 
In the latter year a yellow fever epidemic drove him to Atlanta, 
where he became a member of the editorial staff of the Atlanta 
Constitution. His literary career began with his accession to this 
position on the Constitution, and continued for over thirty years. 
He retired from the Atlanta Constitution in 1900 to devote him- 
self to more permanent literary work. 

Writings: Uncle Remus, His Songs and His Sayings; Mingo 
and Other Sketches; Nights with Uncle Remus; On the Planta- 
tion; Little Mr. Thimblethinger; Free Joe and Other Georgian 
Sketches; Daddy Jake, the Runaway, and Short Stories Told 
after Dark; Memorial Volume to Henry W\ Grady; Balaam and 
His Master; Uncle Remus and His Friends; Chronicles of Aunt 
Minervy Ann; Aaron in the Wild Woods; A Little Union Scout; 
Gabriel Tolliver; Wally Wonderoon; The Making of A States- 
man; On The Wing of Occasions; Tales of the Home Folks in 
Peace and War; Georgia from the Invasion of De Soto to Recent 
Times; Tar Baby and Other Rhymes. 

Paul Hamilton Hayne was born in Charleston, South Caro- 
lina, January 1, 1830, and died near Augusta, Georgia, July 6, 
1886. He was given a good schooling and was graduated at the 
College of Charleston. He studied law, but soon gave his atten- 
tion to poetry. He became editor of Russell's Magazine in 1857, 
and published three volumes of poetry in Boston. During tlie 
war he served as aide on Governor Pickens's staff until he was 



428 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

forced to retire on account of his health. At the close of the 
war he settled in Augusta, Georgia, and engaged in editorial 
work and contributed many articles to Northern magazines. 

Writings: Legends and Lyrics; The Mountain of the Lovers; 
The Battle of King's Mountain; The Return of Peace; Yorktown 
Centennial Lyric; Biographical Sketch of Henry Timrod; The 
Broken Battalions; Sesqui-Centennial Ode; Poem for Charleston 
Centennial; Poems (several volumes). 

Bexj.\:mix Harvey Hill was born in Hillsborough, Georgia, 
September 14, 1823, and died in 1882. He was tutored under 
Rev. jNIr. Corbin of Yale University, was graduated from the 
University of Georgia, and admitted to the bar after one year of 
study. In 1851 he was elected to the General Assembly of the 
State, and was active in the interest of the Union and the Con- 
stitution for many years. In spite of his views he was a delegate 
to the Secession Convention at Milledgeville, and later to the 
Confederate Congress at Montgomery, Alabama. After the States 
once seceded he was an ardent advocate of the Confederacy, and 
was a member of the Confederate Senate during the entire war. 
After the war he was imprisoned from May to July, 1865, on 
account of his activity for the Confederacy. For ten years he 
fought the policies of Reconstruction, but finally withdrew from 
public life and counselled submission. In 1875 he was elected 
to the first Democratic Congress since the war; in 1877 he en- 
tered the Senate. He was prominent in that body, serving on 
many important committees and acting as chairman of some, 
until his death from cancer. 

Thomas Jefferson was born at Shadwell, Albemarle County, 
Virginia, April 13, 1743, and died at Monticello, near the same 
place, July 4, 1825. He attended William and Mary College, 
and studied law in the office of the famous Judge Wythe. 
From the age of twenty-six until 1817 he was conspicuous in the 
political life of the nation, holding many oflBces, ranging from 
that of member of the House of Burgesses of Virginia to that of 
President of the United States; he was three times Minister to 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 429 

France. He drafted many State papers, foremost of these being 
the "Declaration of Independence." He negotiated the Louisiana 
Purchase; was author of the statute of Virginia for religious 
freedom; advocated a system of public schools; introduced into 
the United States the decimal system of currency; and founded 
the present Democratic party. During the latter part of his life, 
after his retirement from politics, he was chiefly interested in the 
establishment of the University of Virginia, planning the build- 
ings and the executive work to the minutest details. 

Writings: Autobiography, essays, treaties, letters, reports, 
messages, etc. 

John Pendleton Kennedy was born in Baltimore, Maryland, 
October 25, 1795; and died in Newport, Rhode Island, August 
18, 1870. He was graduated at a college in Baltimore and after- 
ward studied law. He was interested in public life until his death, 
served in the State Legislature and in Congress, and was Secre- 
tary of the Navy, during which time he was much interested in the 
expeditions of Perry to Japan, Lynch to Africa, and Kane to the 
North Pole. He drew up the plan of Peabody Institute, and was 
one of its trustees. He was a friend of Poe and of Thackeray. 

Writings: Essays in Red Book; Swallow Barn; Horse-Shoe 
Robinson; Rob of the Bowl; addresses and reports, political 
satires, etc. He is said to have written the fourth chapter of the 
second volume of The Virginians, by Thackeray. 

Lucros QuiNTUS Cincinnatus Lamar was born in Putnam 
County, Georgia, September 1, 1825, and died at Vineville, near 
Macon, Georgia, January 23, 1893. He studied in Oxford, Mis- 
sissippi, and was graduated at Emory College, Oxford, Georgia, 
after which he studied law. In 1849 he taught mathematics at 
the State University of Mississippi, but returned to the practice 
of law in Georgia, and was elected to the Legislature. In 1854 
he returned to Mississippi and was elected to Congress from that 
State. He served in the army during the first few years of the 
war as colonel, and later was sent to Russia as a commissioner. 
After the war he was again professor in the University of Mis- 



430 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

sissippi. In 1872 he was elected to Congress and remained in 
public life until his death, seiTing as Congressman, Secretary of 
the Interior, and Justice of the Supreme Court. 

Writings: Many speeches and letters. (A list is given in The 
Life, Times and Speeches of L. Q. C. Lamar, by Edward Mayes, 
ex-Chancellor of the University of Mississippi.) 

Sidney Lanier was bom in Macon, Georgia, February 3, 
1842; and died at Lynn, in the mountains of North Carolina, 
September 7, 1881. He was graduated from Oglethorpe College, 
Georgia, in 1860, where he acted as tutor until the war broke 
out. He was very musical, but had little musical training. He 
joined the Confederate army, and toward the close of the war 
was in charge of a blockade-running vessel. He was captured 
and confined five months in Point Lookout Prison. The ex- 
posure and hardships incident to this phase of his experience 
germinated the seeds of consumption against which he had to 
fight the rest of his life, and to which he finally succumbed. 
After the war he went to Alabama and for several years acted 
as teacher, clerk, or lawyer; but finding that his health grew no 
better, and feeling that he was wasting his genius in uncongenial 
pursuits, he decided to give his life to literature and music. For 
this reason he settled in Baltimore, where he became first flute in 
the Peabody Symphony Concerts. In 1879 he was engaged as 
lecturer on English literature in Johns Hopkins University, but 
he was often obliged to quit work and spend months in the 
States farther south in search of health. 

Writings: Poems (edited by his wife, with a Memorial by 
William Hayes Ward); Tiger Lilies; Florida; The English 
Novel and Principles of its Development; The Science of English 
Verse; The Boy's Froissart; The Boy's King Arthur; The Boy's 
Mabinogion; The Boy's Percy. 

Robert Edward Lee was born in Stratford, Westmoreland 
County, Virginia, January 19, 1807, and died in Lexington, Vir- 
ginia, October 12, 1870. He was a graduate of West Point Mili- 
tary Academy. He was appointed second lieutenant of engineers 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 431 

after his graduation in 1829, and was assigned to duty in Hampton, 
Virginia; from 1834 to 1837 he was in Washington, assistant to 
the chief engineer. He became captain of engineers after a year 
in St. Louis, where he was engaged in superintending the im- 
provement of the Mississippi. He served in the Mexican War 
under General Scott ; then for three years was stationed at Balti- 
more, becoming superintendent of the Academy at West Point in 
1855. At the end of this time he was ordered to Texas, to take 
command of the forces against the Indians. During leave of 
absence he commanded the troops which suppressed the John 
Brown Raid in 1859. In 1861 he resigned as Colonel in the 
United States army, was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the 
Virginia forces, and later of the Confederate army. Several 
months after the close of the Civil War, he became president of 
Washington College (now. Washington and Lee University). 

Writings: Letters and addresses. He edited his father's 
Memoirs of the Revolution. 

William Gordon McCabe was born in Richmond, Virginia, 
August 4, 1841. He was educated at the University of Virginia. 
In 1861 he entered the Confederate service and rose to the posi- 
tion of captain. For many years after the war he conducted a 
preparatory school at Petersburg, Virginia. 

Writings: Ballads of Battle and Bravery; Defence of Peters- 
burg; literary and historical articles; Latin grammar. 

John Charles McNeill was born in Scotland County, North 
Carolina, July 26, 1874, and died October 17, 1907. He was a 
graduate of Wake Forest College, North Carolina, and practised 
law in Lumberton, N. C, for some time. Later he was on the 
staff of the Charlotte Observer, where he devoted his entire time 
to writing until his death. 

Writings: Songs, Merry and Sad, and Lyrics from Cotton Land. 

Alexander Beaufort Meek was born in Columbia, South 
Carolina, July 17, 1814, and died at Columbus, Mississippi, 
November 30, 1865. He was graduated at the University of 



432 SOUTHERN PROSE .\ND POETRY 

Alabama in 1833; then studied law at the University of Georgia 
and also took his master's degree there. He was lieutenant in 
the volunteer service against the Seminoles, and was for short 
periods Attorney-General and Probate Judge. In 1845 he be- 
came Assistant Secretary of the Treasury, but returned to Ala- 
bama in two years, having been appointed District Attorney for 
the Southern District. He resided in Mobile, Alabama, for 
twenty years, acting as associate editor of the Register during 
most of this time. He was a member of the State Legislature 
and Speaker of the House, and during that time wrote the bill 
establishing the public-school system of Alabama. He lived at 
Columbus for only a short period before his death. 

Writings: Red Eagle; Songs and Poems of the South; Pil- 
grims of Mount Vernon, and History of Alabama (unfinished); 
Romantic Passages in Southwestern History. 

Theodore O'Hara was born in Danville, Kentucky, February 
11, 1820, and died near Guemiown, Alabama, June 6, 1867. 
He was prepared for college by his father, and entered St. 
Joseph's College, at Bardsto\Mi, where he did so well that he 
was asked to take charge of the Greek for the younger students. 
He studied law and practised his profession for three years, at 
the end of which time he was appointed clerk in the Treasury 
Department in Washington. He entered the army at the out- 
break of the iSIexican War, and rose to the rank of major. At 
the close of the war he returned to Washington and practised 
law. He was afterward editor of the Mobile Register, and of the 
Frankfort Yeoman, in Kentucky. He again entered the army 
and saw service in Texas against the Indians. During the Civil 
War he was a colonel in the Confederate army. After the war 
he engaged in the cotton business in Columbus, Georgia, but 
was ruined by a fire. 

Writings: Bivouac of the Dead; The Old Pioneer (the author- 
ship of this poem is doubtful). 

Thomas Nelson Page was bom in Hanover County, Virginia, 
April 23, 1853, and now Hves in Washington, D. C. He was 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 433 

graduated at Washington and Lee University, received his degree 
in law at the University of Virginia, and holds several honorary 
degrees. He practised his profession in Richmond, but finally 
abandoned it for the more congenial one of writing. He has 
lectured and given readings from his own writings. 

Writings: In Ole Virginia; Two Little Confederates; Elsket 
and Other Stories; Befo' de War; On New Found River; Pas- 
time Stories; Among the Camps; Red Rock; The Negro, the 
South's Problem, etc.; Gordon Keith; Santa Clauses Partner; 
Bred in the Bone; The Burial of the Guns and Other Stories; 
John Marvel, Assistant. 

Walter Hines Page was born in Cary, North Carolina, 
August 15, 1855. His present home is near New York City. He 
was educated at Bingham School, North Carolina, Trinity Col- 
lege, North Carolina, and Randolph-Macon College, Virginia, 
and was also a Fellow in Greek at Johns Hopkins University. 
He taught a short time in Louisville, Kentucky; edited a paper 
in St. Joseph, Missouri; founded a paper in Raleigh, North 
Carolina; worked in New York for The World, and in 1883 
for The Evening Post, which he left to accept a position on The 
Forum. Later he became literary adviser for Houghton, Mifflin 
and Company. He was editor of The Atlantic Monthly in 1896, 
and three years later became a member of the firm of Double- 
day, Page and Company, and editor of The World's Work. He 
has delivered numerous addresses, especially in regard to good 
government and education. 

Writings: Rebuilding of Old Commonwealths; articles on The 
Arisen South. 

Samuel Minturn Peck was born in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, 
November 4, 1854; his home is in Tuscaloosa. He was gradu- 
ated at the University of Alabama, then studied medicine in 
New York City. Immediately after graduation he began to 
write poems for the newspapers and magazines, which have 
been collected into the volumes below. 

Writings: Cap and Bells; Rings and Love-knots; Rhymes and 



434 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Roses; Alabama Sketches; The Fair Woman of To-day; The 
Golf Girl. 

Albert Pike was bom in Boston, Massachusetts, December 
29, 1809, and died in Washington, D. C, April 2, 1891. He 
studied at Harvard University; then taught in his native State 
for a short while, and for many years in the South-west. In 
1832 he went to Arkansas and became an editor, and later a 
lawyer. He fought in the Mexican War; then practised law in 
New Orleans until the Civil War. He was Confederate Com- 
missioner to the Indians, and brigadier-general, so that, though 
he was not born in the South, like Poe he became a Southerner 
by adoption, and was thoroughly identified with the interests of 
that section. After the war he practised law in Memphis, Ten- 
nessee, and finally in Washington, D. C. 

Writings: Hymns to the Gods; Prose Sketches and Poems; a 
collection including the hymns entitled Nugea. 

Edward Coate Pinckney was born October 1, 1802, in 
London, England, where his father was acting as Minister to 
England, He died in Baltimore, April 11, 1828. He was in 
school in Baltimore till his fourteenth year, when he entered 
the navy. After six years he resigned and studied law. He 
was elected an unsalaried professor of rhetoric and belles- 
lettres in the University of Maryland in 1826. A few months 
before his death he was made editor of The Maryland, a political 
journal. He suffered much from ill health. 

Writings: A volume of poems entitled Rodolph and Other 
Poems. 

Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston, January 19, 1809, 
it is supposed, though this point has not been definitely settled. 
He died in Baltimore, October 7, 1849. He went to school in 
England when a child, and afterward in Richmond, Virginia, 
entering the University of Virginia in February, 1826, where he 
remained one scholastic year. His mother and father having 
died when he was three years old, Mrs. John Allan adopted him 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 435 

and cared for him until he left the University of Virginia. After 
having been withdrawn from the University by Mr. Allan, he was 
placed in a counting-room for a short time, but left there and 
went to Boston where he enlisted in the army. In the autumn 
of 1827 he was transferred to Fort Moultrie and in 1828 to 
Fortress Monroe, Virginia, where he was promoted to be 
sergeant-major. In 1830 a substitute was provided in order 
that he might withdraw from the army and enter West Point. 
In January, 1831, he was dismissed from the Academy on account 
of neglect of duties, and went to New York, devoting himself 
thereafter to a literary career. Very little is known of his career 
for two years, but he seems to have lived in Baltimore most of 
the time. In 1835 he became editor of the Southern Literary 
Messenger in Richmond. From this time his life is very erratic, 
being passed in various cities in various positions. He was con- 
nected with many magazines, but on account of various irregu- 
larities and ill health was unable to maintain his position in any 
case. His death was peculiarly sad and mysterious. 

Writings: Poems, Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque; 
Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym; The Raven and Other Poems; 
Eureka; Gold Bug, etc., Literati of New York, Conchologisfs 
First Book; Poetic Principle. 

The most complete edition of Poe's works is that called the 
Virginia edition, edited by Prof. J. A. Harrison; see also the 
Arnheim edition, and the edition in ten volumes edited by Ed- 
mund Clarence Stedman and Prof. George E. Woodberry. 

Margaret Junkin Preston was born in Philadelphia, May 
19, 1820, and died in Baltimore, March 29, 1897. Her father, 
who was the founder of Lafayette College in Pennsylvania, and 
president of Washington College (now Washington and Lee Uni- 
versity), superintended her education, giving her special training 
in the classics. She was married in 1857 to Prof. J. T. L. Preston, 
of the Virginia Military Institute, and when the Civil War came 
on, she identified herself with the South, although her father re- 
signed and returned North. 

Writings: Silverwood; Old Songs and New; For Love's 



436 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

Sake; Book of Monographs; Beechenbrook; Colonial Ballads; 
Cartoons; religious poems and articles for magazines, and sketches 
of travels. 



Agnes Scott Pryor was born in Halifax County, Virginia, 
in 1830, and now lives in New York City. In 1848 she was mar- 
ried to General Roger A. Pryor, who was then living in Virginia. 
After the war they moved to New York City, where General 
Pryor began the practice of law, and became in time Judge of the 
Supreme Court. Mrs. Pryor has always been interested in 
patriotic work, and is a member of the Daughters of the Ameri- 
can Revolution, the Colonial Dames, and other similar organiza- 
tions. 

Writings: The Mother of Washington and Her Times; Remi- 
niscences of Peace and War; My Day, Reminiscences of a Long 
Life. 

James Ryder Randall was born in Baltimore, Maryland, 
January 1, 1839, and died in Augusta, Georgia, January 15, 1908. 
He studied at Georgetown College, afterward entering business 
in Baltimore, only to abandon it to become professor of litera- 
ture at Poydras College, Louisiana. Toward the close of the 
war he became connected with the Augusta Chronicle and for 
many years was its Washington correspondent. 

Writings: Maryland, My Maryland and Other Poems. 

Irwin Russell was born in Port Gibson, Mississippi, June 3, 
1852, and died in New Orleans, December 23, 1878. He was 
graduated at the St. Louis University. He afterward studied 
law and was admitted to the bar at the age of nineteen. He did 
not stick to his profession, but spent his life mostly in roving 
about, picking up various trades, and browsing over old books. 
After a yellow fever epidemic in 1878 he went to New York 
but soon shipped on a vessel for New Orleans, working his way. 
He had a position on the staff of the New Orleans Times, but 
died a short time after he obtained it. 

Writings: One volume of poetry (collected after his death). 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 437 

Abram Joseph Rya^ was born in Norfolk, Virginia, August 15, 
1839, and died in Louisville, Kentucky, April 22, 1886. He 
entered the Roman Catholic priesthood in 1861, and served 
churches in Mobile, New Orleans, Knoxville, and Augusta. 
During the war he was a chaplain in the Confederate army. 
He did some lecturing and edited various religious journals. 

Writings: Poems (three volumes) ; Life of Christ (unfinished). 

William Gilmore Simms was born in Charleston, South 
Carolina, April 17, 1806, and died there, June 11, 1870. His 
early education was limited. For a while he acted as a drug 
clerk, then studied law, but he soon abandoned his profession 
to become editor of a new magazine. From this time on he 
devoted his entire time to letters, becoming a novelist of some 
distinction, an editor of several different magazines, and a pleas- 
ing lecturer. He gathered around him a literary coterie, among 
them Henry Timrod and Paul Hamilton Hayne, and was a 
friend to almost every literary aspirant in the South. His life 
ended in sadness, owing to the failure of the Confederacy and 
the destruction of his home during the Civil War, and the 
death of his wife, some of his children, and many of his 
friends. 

Writings: Martin Faher; Book of My Lady; Guy Rivers; 
Yemassee; The Partisan; Mellichamps; Richard Hurdis; Palayo; 
Carl Werner and Other Tales; Border Beagles; Confession; 
or, The Blind Heart; Count Julina; Wigwam and Cabin; Kather- 
ine Walton; Golden Christmas; Beauchampe; Helen Halsey; 
Castle Dismal; Forayers; Marion and Other Tales; Utah; Wood- 
craft; Marie de Berniere; Father Abbott; Scout; Charlemont; 
Va^conselas; Classique of Kiawah; Atalantis; Grouped Thoughts 
and Scattered Fancies; Lays of the Palmetto; Southern Passages 
and Pictures; Songs and Ballads of the South; Michael Bonham; 
or, Fall of the Alamo; Norman Maurice; Lives of General G. 
Francis Marion, Captain John Smith, Chevalier Bayard, General 
Nathanael Greene; Geography of South Carolina; South Caro- 
lina in the Revolution; War Poetry of the South; Seven Dramas of 
Shakespeare, and various reviews in periodicals. 



438 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

John Banister Tabs was born in Amelia County, Virginia, 
March 22, 1845, and died near Ellicott City, Maryland, Novem- 
ber 19, 1909. He was instructed by tutors, and after the war 
studied music in Baltimore. He served in the Confederate navy 
during the war and for seven months was imprisoned at Point 
Lookout, where he became acquainted with Sidney Lanier. He 
entered the Roman Catholic priesthood in 1884 and shortly 
became professor of English at St. Charles College, Maryland. 
He became blind several months before his death. 

Writings: Poems; Lyrics; An Octave to Mary; Child Verses; 
Poems, Grave and Gay; Two Lyrics; Later Lyrics; Rosary in 
Rhyme. 

John Reuben Thompson was born in Richmond, Virginia, 
October 23, 1823, and died in New York, April 30, 1873. He gradu- 
ated at the University of Virginia, and studied law. He practised 
law for a short period, but in 1847 he became editor of the South- 
ern Literary Messenger and abandoned his former profession. 
On account of delicate health, he resigned in 1859 and moved 
to Augusta, Georgia, where he became editor of Southern Field 
and Fireside. The next year he returned to Richmond and was 
made Assistant Secretary of the Commonwealth. In 1864 he 
went abroad for his health and upon his return in 1866 became 
editor of the New York Evening Post. Again he was forced to 
travel in Europe and in Colorado in an attempt to regain health, 
but to no avail. 

Writings: Poems, letters, sketches, etc., which have not been 
collected into a volume. 



Henry Timrod was born in Charleston, South CaroUna, 
December 8, 1829, and died in Columbia, South Carolina, Octo- 
ber 6, 1867. He was educated in the Charleston schools and in 
the University of Georgia ; after which he studied law for a time 
but gave it up to become a teacher. He was a tutor in private 
families for ten years. He went into the war as a volunteer, 
and also served as army correspondent in the South-west, greatly 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 439 

to the detriment of his already feeble constitution. In 1864 he 
was appointed editor of the South Carolinian. 

Writings: Poems (Memorial Edition); prose articles in the 
South Carolinian. 

Francis Orrery Ticknor was born in Clinton, Georgia, in 
1822, and died near Columbus, Georgia, in December, 1874. 
He attended a leading school of Massachusetts, studied medi- 
cine in New York and Philadelphia, and graduated from a 
medical college in Pennsylvania. He settled on a farm near 
Columbus, Georgia, and led the life of a country doctor, writing 
most of his poetry on the back of prescription blanks while he 
was talking to his neighbors about their farm products, etc. He 
was a horticulturist of some reputation, and his Cloth of Gold 
and Malmaison roses were exceptionally fine. 

Writings: One volume of poetry, edited by Miss Kate Mason 
Rowland (does not give his complete writings). 

Henry Watterson was born in Washington, D. C, February 
16, 1840; his home is in Louisville, Kentucky. He was educated 
privately and holds many honorary degrees. He served as staff 
officer in the Confederate army and was chief of scouts in Gen- 
eral Johnson's army during 1864. He was reporter for Wash- 
ington States from 1858 to 1861, and after the war, editor of the 
Democratic Review, Chattanooga Rebel, and Republican Banner. 
In 1868 he went to Louisville and assumed control of the Courier- 
Journal of which he has since been editor. He served one term 
in Congress, has always been interested in the political problems 
of the South and has delivered many speeches in behalf of 
various causes. 

Writings: Histm'y of the Spanish- American War; The Com- 
promises of Life, etc.; edited Oddities of Southern Life and 
Character. 

Richard Henry Wilde was born in Dublin, Ireland, Sep- 
tember 24, 1789, but came to this country when he was nine 
years old and died in New Orleans, September 10, 1847. He 



440 SOUTHERN PROSE AND POETRY 

studied law with the assistance of a friend, but, after abandoning 
politics, he studied abroad from 1835 to 1840, giving especial 
attention to Italian literature. He was once Attorney-General of 
Georgia and was a Member of Congress for several terms, but 
gave up politics because of his opposition, to Andrew Jackson. 
In 1843 he removed to New Orleans, becoming professor of law 
in the University of Louisiana. 

Writings: His only book is Conjectures Concerning the Love, 
Madness, and Imprisonment of Torquato Tasso, but he contributed 
many poems to newspapers and left at his death a number of 
manuscripts which have never been published. 



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